The Rules
by Fearful Little Thing
Summary: You follow the Rules and everything is ok. Everyone is happy and everyone is equally offended. In the aftermath of a hate crime Kurt recovers from bruises and finds out just how much it means to have friends who care. Ends in Puck/Kurt
1. Chapter 1

**Notes**: I came up with a couple of new names out of necessity, because the show doesn't give a lot of named jocks to work with. First time writing Glee. I'm not sure yet whether this will stand alone or be afforded more chapters.

Story dedicated to Spider, who has been an excellent guinea-pig.

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**At the heart of harassment there is the vindictive belief that you are right. It's not an opinion, it's a fact - solid and irrefutable. You're not unfairly biased. You're not a racist or a sexist or whatever PC term it is they're throwing around, pretending they don't secretly think the same things. You're just stating a fact.**

**And if they don't want to face facts, fine. It's only fair that you show them how they're wrong.**

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He stood on unsteady legs, off-balance and full of aches. His vision was blurred, the flesh around his eyes and nose a mess of throbbing hurt. He could taste blood. It hurt to breathe.

It wasn't that bad. It could have been a lot worse.

The first thing to go was the music. He had to pause after bending down to unplug the player, the blooming bruises across his abdomen protesting their unfair treatment. He took a few deep breaths, gathered his bag, and turned off the lights on his way out.

The hallway was totally empty and that was a good thing. He didn't know how well he could keep his composure if someone happened to see him like this, with the telltale drips from a bloody nose dotted across his shirt and the beginnings of a set of impressive black eyes.

At least his nose wasn't broken.

All in all it looked a lot worse than it actually was. A heat pack, a good night's sleep... and he'd look absolutely awful in the morning. If the bathrooms were still unlocked he could at least clean himself up a bit before going home. He didn't want to have to do it in the car with nothing but the rear view mirror and whatever supplies he had in his bag.

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**There's a set of Rules. **

**They're not written anywhere, not official because they don't have to be. Everyone just knows them, like they were born with the knowledge and never had to be handed a piece of paper with the Rules written in a neat little list. You follow the Rules and everything is ok. Everyone is happy and everyone is equally offended.**

**You don't follow the Rules.**

**You don't follow and that's a different story.**

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_Oh_, he thought to himself as he felt the impact, and the next – this time to his stomach. _My nose is bleeding_. And, _That will bruise_.

He felt a strange detachment though every burst and flare of pain, as if it wasn't really his body in the middle there trying to curl in on itself. His arms were being held behind his back by strong, immovable hands. He could feel the blood dripping down his chin and the impact of bare knuckles through two layers of wool and cotton but couldn't see their faces. Not seeing didn't matter, considering he knew exactly who they were.

He tried to remain as limp as possible, as if playing possum would make any difference at all. He wondered if he should pretend to faint, whether it would scare them. Or maybe they'd just feel like big tough men.

The sharp punch to his kidneys was the last one.

He was dropped, limp and uncooperative, to the floor. Curled into an odd shape and wasn't sure whether or not he was crying. He watched them leave, keeping an eye on the door long after it had shut.

Blood dripped sluggishly from his nostrils, an odd tickle that layered over the throbbing. Slowly, gingerly, Kurt swiped under his nose with the back of his hand. The small bump sent a new stab of pain through the bridge of his nose.

_Oh shit_. He thought, simultaneously biting back a whimper. _My nose_.

And that's when he knew he was crying.

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**You don't follow the Rules.**

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The auditorium was mostly dark, the seats empty and the tech booth free of operators. Most of the lights were off, only a few fresnels lighting up the stage. The music was turned up as loud as the CD player would allow, haunting orchestral harmonies alight in the air. When Kurt closed his eyes he could almost see the orchestra right there, could imagine an audience with their breath caught in their throats and their eyes all on him.

Sometimes, for songs like this, he would sing with his eyes closed and it was as if it focussed the sound somehow. Without sight it was just him and the music and the emotion. He wasn't out to impress anyone by himself, performing to his own imagination, to an audience where sound was the only thing that mattered.

Celene Dion.

The range of vocals was perfect for emoting, even more so for showing off the full power of his voice. And even better – this being after school and not a day for practice, there was nobody here to listen. No pressure.

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**It's against the Rules to be so unrepentantly individual. It says you don't want to be a part of the team, a part of the wheels and cogs that turn this small society. It says you don't want to be a part of something bigger and more important than yourself. **

**You don't function like a normal person, like you would if you just kept your head down.**

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"Now if you could just play like you practice we might actually have a chance of winning this year."

It wasn't the most encouraging thing for a coach to say, but considering the team's illustrious career of losing it also wasn't the most depressing thing to have said. In fact, it sort of let the practice end on a high note. It _had_ been a good practice, the team _had_ been working better than ever before. If it wasn't just a fluke brought on by lingering summer break endorphins things might actually be looking up for the Titans.

The atmosphere in the locker room was surprisingly cheerful.

"We might actually have a chance," Phillips repeated the coach's words.

"Yeah," the sarcastic drawl came back to him from the other side of the room, "a chance in hell."

"A snowball's chance," another voice answered. A locker slammed and a backpack was dumped on the ground.

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**You keep your head down, you act like everybody else, and this wouldn't be happening. **

**This is the price of standing out. This is what it affords you. Can't you see it would be so much easier to just give in? Can't you see that - in a roundabout sort of way - they're only trying to help you? And if you won't accept the help, if you won't take the hints, the only choice left is to remove you.**

**Be what you want to be when you're at home and out of sight.**

**This is the real world. There are Rules.**

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Donahue, Robinson and Phillips. Everyone else was gone, begged off to various activities – work, girlfriends, family stuff, whatever. Robinson and Phillips caught the bus to and from school which meant they left later than everyone else anyway. Donahue had a car, but no obligations and a predisposition towards doing things slow and methodical.

"Let's face it," Phillips said as the three of them walked through the empty hallways towards the parking lot. "This team is going nowhere fast."

Another step or two and the boys walked into a swell of slow music. While the doors to the auditorium were closed, the wood and glass couldn't quite block out the sound of a canned orchestra and the muffled notes of a powerful voice. Phillips wrinkled his nose. "And speaking of going nowhere... That shit's just wrong."

Robinson stopped by the doors, listening for a moment to the muffled music. "Isn't that some super-girly song from that super-girly chick flick about the boat?"

"Jesus, man. Why do we have to put up with this?"

"We shouldn't have to put up with this. Man, it's frickin' sick. I mean, you do what you wanna do when you're in own home, right? That? That shit is like walking around nude outside your living room, like outside your house. Nobody wants to see that."

"Unless you're Mrs. Ryder," Donahue joked, smirking to himself. "Then it's cool."

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**You know there are Rules. You weren't born without the knowledge of them. You defy them knowingly and it grates against society's machine. The cogs and gears chew you up and spit you out, leaving you alone on the floor in a puddle of useless liberation. **

**Liberals use words like Racism. Sexism. Homophobia.**

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"Yeah? Well that is not Mrs. Ryder." Robinson jabbed his index finger towards the auditorium doors for emphasis. "That is a dude."

"That shit does not fly," Donahue agreed.

"The fag needs to get it through his thick head that this kind of thing doesn't happen at McKinley."

"Like it's going to stop," Phillips pointed out, voice dry. "The kid's a total numbskull. Slushies, dumpster-dives, water balloon drive-bys... Dude, someone even stole that prissy man purse and he didn't get it."

"So maybe it'd take something bigger."

"Something that sticks."

"Something _painful_."

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**Hate Crime.**

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The momentary lull in conversation was just long enough to hear the swell of a beautiful high note. Donahue's face clouded over. "Fuck it. I'm putting a stop to this." He pushed the doors open and stepped into the darkened auditorium. The music covered the sound, the dark covered his approach. He could sense rather than see the other two boys following him, and he gestured for one of them to take the other side of the stage and cut off any potential retreat.

The singer was oblivious, eyes closed as he belted out the last verse before the repeated chorus. He looked natural, comfortable, even a little bit beautiful. It was only when Phillips grabbed his arms from behind that the eyes snapped open. For just a moment Donahue was faced with a pair of icy blue eyes, pale and intense. He threw the first punch to shut them.

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**It's only a part of the Rules.**

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Afterwards, with knuckles bruised and egos pumped, the boys parted ways. Donahue got into his car and started the engine. He was half way home before an odd sort of thought occurred to him. Somehow he'd forgotten just how much trouble they could get into if anyone knew that it was _them_ who beat up the queer kid.

He glanced at the slight swelling, the red of the knuckles on his right hand, and frowned. They hadn't beat him up that bad. Just enough to teach him a lesson. And it's not as if anyone had any proof. In a contest of his words against theirs, the Hummel kid would come out the loser.

Donahue started thinking about what his mother would be making for dinner.

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**It's not a belief. You are right. You did the right thing. **

**So why are you hiding your bloody knuckles?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes**: Thanks again to the Spider, without who's eight-legged guidance this would not have been written. Thanks also to everyone who reviewed.

This may eventually become slash, but as yet it's still safe for everyone.

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School buildings seemed wrong after hours. They weren't made for quiet, or for the sounds of footsteps to echo against the empty halls. Kurt was glad of the silence. The lack of people meant that there was nobody there to see him shuffling through the hall with one hand cupped around his nose, head tipped back, praying to any higher power that might have been listening that the bleeding didn't start up again.

He was just about at the bathroom when he heard the echo of someone else's feet. Confident feet that took heavy, loping steps.

"Oh no," Kurt muttered to himself. He winced, took two large steps and threw out a hand to open the bathroom door only to discover that it was locked. The powers that be must have decided that he hadn't been humiliated quite enough just yet.

"Hey, Hummel!" A familiar voice called out, the echo from the empty hallway bouncing a half-note above and below the voice's actual timbre. "That you?"

Kurt considered replying that it was Mariah Carrey recovering from a nose job, but he really wasn't in the mood for it. He gazed skywards, studying the tiny cracks in the paint on the ceiling. Then he turned and gave The Voice the driest look he could summon over the top of his hand's protective shield.

The response was only half what he was expecting. "Whoa. Did someone take a shovel to your face or what?"

"What do you want, Robin Goodfellow?" Kurt asked, voice flat.

"Who?" The Voice - Puck - replied, giving him an odd look. "That bathroom's locked," he pointed out. Then, frowning a little. "Are you ok?"

"What does it look like?" Kurt snapped. He swung away from the locked bathroom and stalked three steps down the hall and away from the other boy before his body reminded him that he'd just been thoroughly pounded. Like meat that had just been tenderised. He slowed, then stopped, unaware that he was swaying just a little.

"It looks like you've been beat up, man."

"Are you still here?" Kurt looked over his shoulder, still hiding his nose with his hand. Noah Puckerman stood a step behind him and to the right, an odd expression on his face. Kurt didn't want to see it. "What do you want?"

There was a good, long moment of hesitation. Enough that Kurt thought he wasn't going to say anything at all. Then the strange, unidentifiable expression fell from Puck's face and was replaced with a plain old frown. The taller boy stepped forwards, reaching out with a hand to grasp Kurt's wrist. "Let me see."

Kurt resisted for a moment out of vanity, but gave up when Puck didn't let up. He sighed and dropped his hand. Vanity wouldn't let him meet the other boy's eyes.

Puck dropped his wrist like it was a hot brick. Kurt could feel his dark brown eyes staring hard at the bruising coming up on his face. If he'd been looking anywhere other than the floor he might have been able to duck out of the way before the boy's calloused fingers touched the bridge of his nose. "Ow!"

"That's not broken," Puck said, "I think."

"It hurts, asshole!" Kurt snapped, his cheeks pink with anger and embarrassment.

"Yeah, fist to the face will do that." Puck stepped back, then to the side, then a half step forward. An odd shuffle that looked so much like the start of a dance that for a second Kurt had the absurd urge to giggle. "Listen, you need any... help or something?"

"So now it's Robin Goodfellow to the rescue." Kurt considered saying no, telling him to screw himself or to just run along and play with all of the other neanderthal boys... Spite, or something like it, stopped him. "I need to find a bathroom," he admitted grudgingly. "Somewhere with water and a mirror, where I can get cleaned up."

"You don't want to go to the nurse's? Or the office. I'd bet anything there's still someone here." A very frosty look quickly changed his mind. Puck held up his hands, as if to show he was unarmed (physically or otherwise). "Ok, whatever. Just trying to help."

"I'm fine. I just need to get cleaned up."

"Ok," Puck repeated. He looked up the hall, then down. Finally he pointed back towards the direction he'd come. "There's one still open down that way. I just came from there." After detention, naturally.

He waited for Kurt to turn and start walking. The soprano was strangely stiff around the middle, holding himself as if he didn't want to shift any more muscles than necessary. Puck thought about offering him a hand and almost decided against it. Then Kurt tripped, something obviously deciding that it had had far too much stress today thank you, and Puck barely managed to catch him with a hand around his arm. "Careful!"

"I've got it," Kurt replied, trying to pull his arm free of Puck's grip. "I'm fine."

"You nearly faceplanted. Like hell you're fine."

"I did no such thing. I slipped a little because these are new shoes, but I assure you I need no assistance. Let go."

"Fine, jeez." Puck let go and held up his hands. "I was just trying to help."

"Well don't."

The other bathroom was indeed unlocked. Kurt breathed a small sigh of relief when the door actually opened, and immediately rested his bag on one sink while he stood in front of another. Kurt pulled paper towels from the dispenser and dampened them under the faucet. If he could get the blood off his face and hands first... God. He dabbed at his nose delicately, carefully swiping blood away as he watched himself in the mirror. He looked a mess. Face blotchy, dark rings starting to colour the skin around his eyes, hair mussed, shirt ruined. And in the space over his shoulder he could see Puck hanging around by the door looking awkward. Kurt stared at him for a moment, then went back to cleaning his face, uncomfortably aware of the sentinel by the door.

"Who's Robin Goodfellow?"

"What?" Kurt blinked, his eyes flicking back to Puck's reflection in the mirror. It was better than looking at his own face.

"You said it twice," Puck replied, frowning. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I figure you meant me."

"It's Shakespeare," Kurt replied. He dumped the paper towels into a nearby waste basket, opened his bag and rummaged through the pockets. "Actually, it's just mythology, but Shakespeare made it famous for a while. Robin Goodfellow is another name for Puck, the bumbling trickster in a Midsummer's Night Dream. Don't take it personally. I don't credit you with enough intelligence to be a trickster, even a bumbling one."

"I'm going to let that go, since someone already beat me to kicking your face in."

"Ha ha." Kurt looked down. He ran his hands under the faucet, the cold water turning the tips of his fingers numb. "I'm sorry," he said after a minute. "This hasn't been a good day."

"Obviously. Look, someone really did a number on you, Hummel. That's a free pass for acting like a bitch." Puck cracked a smile and kicked his foot back against the door lightly. "For now anyway. This doesn't mean I like you or anything."

"Noted."

Kurt patted his face dry. He smoothed powder gently over the worst of the bruising. Even through the thin coating of makeup patches of red and purple still stood out on his face. He looked like a PSA, a warning advert for signs of domestic abuse. And it wasn't going to get any better than this. Caking his face in product would just make it look worse. He knew when to give up on a losing battle.

Puck was still there when he turned around. The sight of him brought the soprano up short. He paused. "You have a car, don't you?" Kurt asked, hating himself for the necessity of the question.

"I do," Puck agreed. Then he saw where this was headed and blanched. The expression smoothed out a moment later. "So... you need a ride?"

"Thank you."

"Who did it?" Puck asked later when they got to the parking lot, walking slow because the smaller boy was still refusing help and practically going at a snail's pace. "Who knocked you around like that?"

"I don't know," Kurt replied, and Puck could tell that he was lying. "Just some boys."

"Yeah, who?"

"Why do you care?"

Puck watched Kurt wince as he folded himself into the front passenger seat of the old pickup that Puck had been driving for over a year now. He didn't know how to explain himself - frankly didn't know what he was really thinking. He couldn't justify his behaviour past the idea that the Glee kids were _his_ to tease and make miserable. And he only beat people up when they deserved it. There was a big difference between keeping the status quo and beating someone up because you didn't like them.

"I just do," Puck replied, glaring at the smaller boy. "So shut up, ok?"

Kurt did shut up, staring resolutely out the window and only speaking up to give directions. It seemed wrong.

"If you ice your nose," Puck advised, just to break the silence, "it won't blow up like a balloon. And if you've got any tiger balm that stuff is good for body bruises. Hurts like a mofo but heals up quicker."

"It's not like I've never had bruises before."

"Really? 'Cause you look like you haven't."

"This is my house." Kurt waited until the car had come to a stop before he unbuckled his seat belt. He gathered his bag up, holding it close to his chest. "Thanks," he said quietly, "for the ride."

"Don't mention it, Hummel."

Kurt didn't smile as he got out of the car, mainly because he was too tired for it and he suspected it would only make his face hurt if he tried. "It was Phillips, Robinson and Donahue," he told Puck. then shrugged. "My dad is going to get it out of me anyway. If they're not suspended by this time tomorrow..."

Three on one. Not good odds for a physical fight. Weird as it was (and as much as he didn't want to admit it. Like, ever), Kurt was a friend. "They'll wish they had been. You can count on it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes**: Mixed metaphor intended. Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, especially Ellie (you made me blush).

Also, in my own fantasy-world the Hudson-Hummel clan is still a functioning family unit, and they have worked through the damage caused by Finn's outburst during Theatricality.

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Slinking into the house undetected was not an option. The best Kurt could hope for was bolting from front door to basement and hoping nobody thought it was weird enough to come down and try to talk to him. Running, Kurt decided, was also not an option. He took a deep breath and opened the door, sending a silent prayer to the gods of blended families that Carole was the first person (and only - please, thank you, goodnight) who saw him.

He pushed open the front door and found that, yet again, the gods were not smiling on him. The very first person he came across was Finn, who blurted aloud; "What happened to your face!"

"I got run over by an ice-cream truck," Kurt snapped, consciously trying not to glare at the other boy (because glaring, just like smiling, would hurt his face right now). "Apparently pointing out the calorie count of chocolate soft-serve is not a good idea these days."

Kurt pushed past the taller boy and stalked resolutely towards the basement. He was still running on the hope that he could at least make it to changing his shirt before his father got a good look at him. He knew he couldn't avoid his father finding out about the beating, or who had done it, but he'd feel better if when it happened he wasn't still as dishevelled and bloody as he was now. Luck was, for just a moment, on his side. He breezed down the stairs and into the basement, Finn trailing after him like a large, concerned puppy-dog.

"Do we have any tiger balm?" he asked, remembering Puck's advice. Normally he wouldn't even consider taking advice from Noah Puckerman, but bruises and 'sports injuries' were something he might actually know about. It seemed likely, and it wasn't as if Kurt had much of a routine for bruises except an icepack and aloe.

"Deep heat cream?" Finn asked dumbly, part of him unable to reconcile the fact that Kurt Hummel - ice prince extraordinaire - was so thoroughly beaten that he needed any assistance at all. "Uh, sure. I think. Let me go check..."

Finn's side of the basement room had started taking on bits and pieces of his persona over the summer, which meant it was both messier and much less coordinated that the other side of the room. It took him just over a minute to find the battered tube of deep heat cream, which had been languishing in a sports bag that he kept meaning to take to school with him.

By the time he turned around to give it to Kurt the smaller boy was seated in front of his vanity, dressed in a plain grey t-shirt that was probably some designer label Finn had never heard of and worth more than it deserved to be. Of all things to be doing, the soprano was currently fixing his hair.

Finn's incredulity must have shown on his face, because for just a moment Kurt's reflection looked hurt, then his face smoothed over into that odd emotionless mask again. "I'm not obsessed," he said, not meeting Finn's eyes in the mirror. "I just don't want to look like such a mess when I tell dad. It's going to be bad enough as it is."

Finn still remembered the look on Burt Hummel's face when he had been the subject of the man's fatherly wrath, and that had only been over a few slurs. His almost-stepfather's reaction to Kurt's bruises was bound to be ten times worse. (_Or better_, he thought privately. It all depended on what your definition of a good reaction to your son being beat up happened to be.)

"Here," Finn said, placing the balm down on the vanity to Kurt's right. "I'm going to go get you some ice. Should I tell mom and your dad that you're not feeling well, so you don't have to come up for dinner?"

"No," Kurt replied, a stubborn set to his mouth. "It's ok, I'll come up."

"I'll get that ice."

Finn almost thought he hallucinated Kurt's prim thank you, but he knew the other boy better than that now. Kurt's pride was bound to be hurting, so he'd appreciate it more if Finn didn't make a big deal out of things. Finn might not be the brightest tool in the shed sometimes, but he knew people and he knew when not to make a fuss of things.

He took the stairs in twos, up to the kitchen in record time. A moment's thought and he took a detour past the linen cupboard for a hand towel to wrap the ice in, he couldn't remember ever seeing any gel packs in the freezer. Sure enough the only ice was the cubed kind, and Fin popped half a tray's worth into the middle of the hand towel before he wrapped the lot up into a makeshift ice pack.

He was putting the ice tray back where it belonged when his mother walked into the kitchen to start on dinner. "Finn?" Carole saw the ice and tsked. "Don't tell me you were hurt in practice this season already?"

"No, mom." Finn shook his head, hesitated, then decided it was best to give the truth. It would come out one way or another anyway. he gestured to the makeshift ice pack. "It's for Kurt. I think he got jumped after school..."

"Jumped?" Carole repeated, instantly switching to concerned mother mode. "What do you mean _jumped_?"

"You know... jumped." Finn shrugged helplessly. "I think... he might have a broken nose."

Carole looked alarmed. "Oh, honey." She took the ice pack and practically trotted to the basement, ignoring Finn's "I don't think he wants a big deal made out of it" except to tell him; "A broken nose _is_ a big deal."

She barged into the basement room and paused only for a moment at the bottom of the stairs when she caught sight of Kurt's bruised face reflected in the vanity mirror. "Oh _no_, sweetheart!"

Kurt looked alarmed, then glared at Finn as best he could without actually changing his expression.

"You'd have to tell her anyway," Finn explained awkwardly, watching as his mother bustled over to gently press the ice pack against the bridge of Kurt's nose.

"Are you ok?" Carole asked over the top of him. She scrutinised Kurt's visible injuries with the eye of an experienced mother. "Honey, those bruises look awful. What happened to you?"

Kurt glared at Finn some more over the fluffy improvised icepack, though the blue hand towel obscuring half his face made it look silly instead of intimidating. (He would never admit aloud that he ever found Kurt's glares intimidating. Ever.) Then he sighed and took the ice pack from his almost-stepmother, continuing to hold it gingerly against his face. "I was practicing in the auditorium," he explained tiredly, "when some jerk footballers thought it would be fun to slap me around. It looks worse than it is, really Carole."

"Let me see," Carole said, gently pulling the icepack away from Kurt's face to look at the bruising again. She shook her head, then let Kurt press the icepack back against his face. "I'm going to call your father. I hope you know the names of those boys, honey. Your father and I will not be letting them get away with this."

"Me either," Finn added, though he really wasn't sure what he'd be able to do about it. If this had been last year he might have worried that doing something about it would be social suicide... but he'd already experienced that. Finn was still on the bottom rung and he knew it. Oddly enough he was starting to realise that being one of the 'uncool kids' gave him a lot more freedom than being popular.

"Puck said pretty much the same thing," Kurt admitted. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep his eyes from welling with tears. As much as he tried to keep it all under wraps the afternoon was really starting to catch up on him.

"Puck was there?" Finn asked, shocked. And perhaps not quite on the ball. "That asshole!"

"No. No," Kurt shook his head. "I bumped into him in the hallway afterwards. He gave me a ride home. He was... oddly supportive." Kurt quickly wiped underneath his eyes. Odd that the idea of having friends who'd stand up for him was more upsetting than the physical beating.

Carole's motherly instincts told her what was coming next. "Finn," she said, "why don't you go upstairs and call Burt at the shop? Tell him to come home, and to bring dinner with him."

"But I thought you were going to call him?"

"Just go, honey." Carole smiled at her son and made shooing motions with her hands. Finn started up the stairs towards the kitchen again and Carole turned her smile towards Kurt. She placed her hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed lightly. "It's ok, sweetie. You don't have to hold it in."

The sympathetic and entirely _motherly_ look on Carole's face did him in. Kurt's vision blurred and his eyes stung, then he hiccupped and the tears came. The next thing he knew he was being held gently in a warm, fluffy hug - the kind that only mothers know how to give - and Carole was making soothing 'shh' noises. It reminded him so much of what he remembered of his own mother that it was almost unbearable.

Kurt wasn't sure just how long he remained like that, face buried in both the fluffy makeshift icepack and Carole's shoulder but by the time Finn stuck his head through the door to tell them that he heard Burt's car, Kurt had stopped crying.

His face looked even worse than it had before, now that it was pink and blotchy as well as various shades of purple, but he felt just a little better.

The next thing he knew his father was thundering down the stairs and gathering him into a hug. Finn must have told him what happened, or Burt must have guessed, because he didn't ask any questions for a long time. Instead, even though his face practically turned purple upon seeing Kurt's bruises, he hardly said so much as a word. Kurt privately suspected it was because he needed the time to reign in his temper.

"We're going to the police," Burt announced finally, in a tone that said clearly that he wouldn't be argued with. "We're going right this second, and if those shits think they're getting away with hurting my son they've got another thing coming. Kurt, are you ok to walk? Can you move by yourself?"

Kurt blanched at the sudden vision he had of his father literally carrying him into the police station. He stood, stiff but steady on his own feet. "I'm fine, dad. I mean," he corrected, at the trifecta of dubious looks he received, "I can walk on my own."

"I won't stand for this," Burt continued as he hovered anxiously a step behind his son while Kurt climbed the stairs. "This is pure hate crime. Bullying - heck, bullying you can expect. I don't like it, but it's a part and parcel fact of life. When it's just words you can say it's normal. This is not normal."

"Dad..."

"Don't think I won't be talking to your principal too. I won't tolerate this town's lack of tolerance any longer!"

Alarmed, Kurt turned wide eyes to his father. Burt sighed.

"No, we're not moving. I'm just not going to stand by and let the assholes who did this to you think they got away with it. By the time I'm done nobody in this town will think it's even close to ok to beat on people just 'cause they don't like something about them."

Kurt tried for a tiny bit of humour. He cracked a small smile, secretly very, very thankful that Burt was _his_ dad; "So I'm going to be the poster child for tolerance now?"

He used his wit again for a different reason when the police officer taking his statement had them bring in a camera to photograph his injuries for evidence. "Alright, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up," Kurt joked quietly, raising his shirt to let the officer photograph the misshapen bruises on his torso.

He felt nothing like Norma Desmond.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes**: Your lack of reactions puzzles me. Have some witty one-liners.

* * *

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The next day at school something was different. Everyone could feel it, even if they didn't know what exactly had changed. There was an odd tension in the halls, an electricity in the air that seemed to dampen even the cheeriest of moods.

Only a few people knew what exactly had happened. And only a few more had consciously noticed one very important contributing factor. Kurt Hummel was not in school today.

"Yes, yes, I understand," Figgins said into the phone. He could feel the beginnings on a headache coming on and the school day had yet to officially begin. He could just tell it was going to be one of _those_ days, especially given the fact that the word 'solicitor' had already been used. "If you just come straight down to my office I will see you right away... I do understand the severity of the situation... Yes, yes. Goodbye."

Principal Figgins understood the severity of the situation on more layers than one. The phone call he had just received had come with some very serious, very bad news. It was information that would have a devastating impact no matter what he chose to do with it, and it only spoke of the severity of the situation that suspension - maybe even expulsion - was the lesser of two evils.

On the one hand he could sit back and do nothing, claim that it was a case of he said she said without any proof and stick up for the three students that had been named. If he did that he would keep the football team intact and avoid a scandal... But that was where the other hand came in. Because on the other hand if he did nothing Burt Hummel was sure to call his lawyer, the lawyer would pressure the police, and the police could lean very heavily on Figgins. And then of course if the media got involved...

The media would get involved if he expelled the students.

Expulsion would be putting his support behind the Hummel kid, would be opening the school to criticisms from parents and the community at large. Expulsion would say, with a very firm hand, that William McKinley did not tolerate violence or discrimination. He could keep the lawyers and police away and deal with the resulting negative fallout with a clear conscience.

The lesser of two evils was still a bitch with a chainsaw. No matter what he did Figgins would be in for a rough ride.

He would wait for the paperwork first and respond as necessary. He would have his meeting with Hummel Sr. He would ask for as much proof as possible, and then he would have talks with those three boys. It was all up to the evidence. Without proof, Figgins could do nothing.

Privately he was torn between hoping that there was either an abundance of proof or no proof at all. Either option would take the decision out of his hands.

.

* * *

.

For the first time in weeks Finn entered school grounds alone, a thundercloud of gloom hanging over his head. In the couple of weeks since summer had ended he'd gotten used to walking into school with his almost-stepbrother before the both of them parted ways to their separate classes. It felt weird to enter school grounds alone. But, much like usual, Finn wasn't alone for long.

He found himself ambushed by a small crowd of his and Kurt's friends, Mercedes and Puck in the lead. He had the brief, strange thought that their formation would be a perfect play on field, then he was swallowed up by the small group and distracted by a sharp poke to the chest.

"Spill it, boy, 'cause I know something's up," Mercedes demanded, giving him a suspicious glare. "Kurt was supposed to call me last night and he never misses a conference call."

Finn, already not sure what (or how much) he should say, was thrown even further when Puck asked; "Was his nose broken or not?"

"What?" Mercedes turned her glare towards Puck, one eyebrow arched in a habit picked up from her best friend. "Did I just hear you say 'broken nose'?"

"Technically it was 'nose broken'," Quinn piped up. "Finn, what happened?"

Her question drew the spotlight back to Finn. He looked around the small circle, the overlapping social segments both his friends and Kurt's friends. "Kurt was jumped by some bullies yesterday," Finn explained. "He's staying home today. His dad's coming down here later to talk to Principal Figgins about it." A small pause later he added; "No, his nose wasn't broken. The doctor said it just looked a whole lot worse than it is."

The reaction was pretty much what he was expecting.

"I know who did it," Puck stated to the group. He cracked his knuckles. "Who wants to come give them a taste of pain?"

"Well I'm coming with you," Mercedes said immediately. "I will bust their lily white asses for messing with my boy."

"We can't," Finn told them reluctantly. "My mom explained it to me. We have to let the police deal with it first."

Puck nodded, and for a moment Finn was surprised by his sudden maturity. Then his friend spoke, and Finn wasn't surprised anymore. "And_ then_ we can kick ass!"

.

* * *

.

Letting someone's tyres down was in no way as satisfying as other, less subtle forms of revenge. Revenge wasn't supposed to be quiet. It was supposed to come at you right when you least expected it, shrieking wildly as it leaped right at your face. When you were taking revenge on someone they were supposed to know it. They were meant to know - even if they couldn't prove - that it was you, and to know why you were doing it.

Letting all of the air out of someone's tyres when nobody was around to see you was a dick move, but it didn't really teach anyone a lesson.

You had to shell out cash for a tow truck, or call a buddy to help you get the car to a service station, or (Puck preferred this idea, it fit in slightly more with the idea of revenge) spend an hour with a bicycle pump trying to get enough air in the tyres to drive the car without damaging it. Per tyre.

Of course, that was if you caught them somewhere in a public parking lot. Doing it at their house - even if you did it to all three cars - just meant that they shelled out a few dollars to hire a compression pump. The only thing it accomplished was making Puck feel marginally better about not being able to do anything real. Yet.

The lone wolf thing didn't work too well when you had more than one mark to beat on. Doubly so if they were your size and could put up a good fight.

Also, getting charged with assault would put a real damper on important things like work and social life. Community service sucked. He would know.

.

* * *

.

"You've got an unhealthy obsession with kicking ass," Artie informed Puck, shading his eyes so he could look up (and up) at the other boy without blinding himself with the morning sun.

Puck shrugged. "Violence is the language of the douche," he explained, seemingly unaware that he might be insulting himself. "You gotta speak their language to make them understand."

.

* * *

.

Another person who's language often needed translation was Rachel Berry. She had, with a strange lack of self-centredness, noticed that something was wrong and immediately stuck herself to Finn's side like a burr. Finn blurted out the whole thing to her within two minutes of the Rachel-Berry-Burr treatment, and the snug squeeze of her arms around his shoulder had been oddly comforting.

Finn took a deep breath after finishing up the story with how Kurt had worn huge designer sunglasses to breakfast because he refused to walk around with two black eyes ('looking like a cheap Vegas hooker with too much makeup' was the exact quote). It felt like a relief to get it all off his chest. He may not be entirely comfortable with everything about the other boy (and maybe never would be), but Kurt was his friend as well as his almost-stepbrother. Finn suffered from too much of a kind heart to not feel bad about him being hurt.

"...founded on nothing but ignorance!" Rachel was saying. "That's the kind of treatment we _get_ in this place. It's a system built on destroying the backbones of people who have talent, like me, and Kurt, and you... And the rest of Glee," she added as an afterthought.

The automatic translation system (with an 80% accuracy) in Finn's head translated all of that to; "I'm really sorry about what happened to Kurt. And I'm also scared that they might hurt someone else. Like me or you."

With that in mind, Finn responded by putting an arm around her waist and returning her comforting squeeze. "Kurt's ok," he answered her, "he's tough, you know? Like, freaky tough for such a..."

"Fairy?" Rachel offered. "And I can say that in full confidence because I don't mean it as a derogative slur. With my two gay dads I'm practically an honorary fairy myself."

"I was going to go with 'small dude'..."

"Oh. Well that works too." After a moment of uncharacteristic silence, Rachel pipes up again; "We should do something as a show of solidarity. Kurt is almost like a friend, maybe, and he's really important to glee. We should work on a song for when he comes back, something to really show exactly how we all feel about this."

Finn didn't even need to boot the translation system for that one. Rachel spoke better when she was singing. He had no doubts that she'd put her foot into it while suggesting the idea, but that didn't mean it wasn't actually a good idea.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes**: Ellie, I love you – have my babies.

Also, song notes at the bottom of the chapter.

* * *

.

The perfect song was a long time in coming.

It's not as if there were any songs that had the specific message of '_we're sorry those asshole jocks beat you up for being the awesome person that you are'_. Most songs that had anything to do with injury were depressing ballads about domestic abuse. (Meatloaf's _Bat Out of Hell_ did not count, according to every single boy in the room. Not only was it not about domestic abuse, it was also not depressing, and made of pure awesome. That said, it was also a wildly inappropriate song suggestion.)

Delilah was out of the question. Puck's first, completely serious, suggestion was vetoed the second the name Alice Cooper was mentioned.

The look on Mr. Shuester's face was slightly pained. Unfailingly tactful, he tried to turn down the suggestion without the outright 'no' that he was thinking; "I'm not sure that song gives the right kind of message. This idea of this exercise is to find a song that's supportive, one that will show Kurt what we think of him."

"Yeah," Puck replied, looking at Mr. Schue like he thought the teacher was the one being dumb here, and not him. "So what's the problem? It's a great song."

Mercedes' incredulous "seriously!" was lost in Rachel's; "Mr. Schue, I vote to remove Puck from the song selection committee. He _obviously_ doesn't know anything about good, appropriate music and I for one find his suggestion offensive and derogatory."

"Like your suggestion was any better, Berry."

"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way?" The tentative suggestion came from Tina. "All of these songs are really depressing. I think we should do something nicer. You know, something a little more up-beat?"

"As opposed to beat-up," Artie added.

"Beetles," Brittany said, and nodded. She looked around the room, and at the few faces looking at her in confusion before she elaborated. "You know, the band? The Beatles did a whole lot of nice songs. I think they'd have something we could sing."

The next few minutes were devoted to a short discussion of everyone's favourite Beatles songs. In the end it was Matt, who was a closet Beatles fan, who came up with the winning idea.

.

* * *

.

An hour after school ended the doorbell to the Hudson-Hummel residence gave an insistent ring.

"I'll get that," Burt hollered from the kitchen before Kurt could even start getting up from the living room couch. "You're supposed to be resting, so stay sitting."

Kurt sighed to himself and slumped back against the couch. He was dressed in the winning combination of grey silk pyjamas and powder-blue dressing gown with matching slippers, sunglasses still perched on his face. All he needed was a drink in a martini glass and he'd look like a model relaxing between shoots... as long as you didn't count the hints of purple still visible under the sunglasses. Kurt wasn't counting them. He was watching reruns of I Dream of Jeannie, silently fantasising about have a life like that, full of glamour and adventure without a hint of danger.

He would be going back to school tomorrow, but in the meantime he was going to indulge himself just a little.

He kept an ear on the front entrance, listening as his father opened the door. Kurt was half expecting to hear about a drive-by egging, nasty anonymous note, or the inspired by movies flaming bag of dog-poop. He heard none of those, and instead picked up the sounds of a familiar voice. Scratch that, voices.

Kurt looked down at himself, sighed, and adjusted the way his dressing gown sat on his shoulders. It was far too late to run for the basement now. At least he was somewhat decently attired, and not still wrapped in the tartan afghan Carole had given him before she left for work.

He didn't pay attention to the short conversation happening at the front door until he heard his father bellow; "Kurt! You ok for visitors?"

"Yes, dad," Kurt called back, "it's fine."

"Looks like it's visiting hour," Burt informed the three kids on his doorstep. "Come right in." He followed the three into the living room, where Kurt was waiting. "You kids need any snacks or anything...?"

"We're fine, dad," Kurt assured him with a smile, using the excuse to look at him so he could miss his friend's first reactions to seeing the hint of bruising that the sunglasses couldn't manage to hide. "Thank you."

"Boy, _what_ are you wearing?" Mercedes was the first of his three visitors to speak.

Her eyes were on his sunglasses, not his pyjamas, but Kurt smoothed a hand down over one knee anyway. "It's Taiwanese silk," he replied, "and it feels delicious."

"It looks great," Tina, the second of his visitors told him. She must have coached Artie into agreeing with her (or the boy had a greater appreciation for pjs than expected) because he nodded as she continued; "That coat looks really plush. Can I feel it?"

Kurt moved further down the couch to allow both girls to find seats for themselves. Tina's hand, nails painted blood red, gingerly petted the sleeve of his dressing gown. "Finn told everyone what happened," she said after a moment.

"Not everyone," Artie corrected her, "just the rest of us glee kids. There are rumours all over the school though, so at least one of the guys who did it might have blabbed."

"Good," Kurt replied primly, lips pursed. "The more people they tell the less able they are to deny it."

"Can we expect to see you in school tomorrow?" Mercedes asked, still looking at the sunglasses but this time searching for Kurt's eyes underneath them. "Because too many days without your snapping wit and things are going to start getting real boring real quick."

"I'm cleared for school tomorrow," Kurt informed them. He hesitated, then reached up and took his sunglasses off. As a general rule sunglasses were discouraged indoors, and most of the teachers he knew would tell him to take them off in class anyway. "Nothing's broken," he told them airily, watching the girls' eyes soften and Artie's sudden frown. He knew he looked a mess, and though it was wholly temporary he still didn't want to think about just how awful two black eyes looked. "It's just a lot of bruising that makes me look like I used a little too much Nocturnelle."

Mercedes gave him a look (and Kurt was silently relieved when he saw nothing pitying in her eyes). "Don't even think about slathering those lips in chilli-red lipstick to match. You could not pull that look."

"I have no plans to become Lima's youngest hooker. But thank you for your concern."

"Hey, where's Finn?" Artie asked all of a sudden. "Doesn't he live here now?"

"Oh, he called to say he was having dinner at Rachel's," Kurt replied. He shook his head over the mysteries of just exactly how Finn Hudson's brain worked. _If at all_, he thought fondly. "I told him I'd keep the first aid kit handy for when he comes home bleeding from his ears."

"That's kinda funny," Mercedes said, a suspicious frown on her face. "'Cause we all saw him getting a lift with Puck when we were leaving."

"I can't see Puck giving Finn a ride to Rachel's place," Artie mused. "Unless he had something to do in that part of town anyway."

"They've been pretty chummy since school started again," Mercedes added. "Maybe Puck owed him one. Or Finn decided he'd better keep an eye on that boy to make sure he didn't go starting any fights on his own."

"Puck was pretty pissed about what happened to you," Tina informed Kurt.

"Yeah, it was weird." Artie nodded. "Remember how he was last year when Vocal Adrenaline was messing with us? It was worse than that."

"Should I be flattered?" Kurt asked drily, then barrelled on before anyone could reply; "Well, whatever." He waved a hand, flicking his fingers as if shooing away the topic of discussion. "I'm sure it's all been terribly dramatic. Now, I've been sitting here all day watching classic television. Who has some real gossip for me?"

.

* * *

.

Two hours later when Kurt's visitors were long gone Finn finally waltzed in through the door a half hour later than he said he'd be. Later he would swear up and down that he had nothing to do with it and no knowledge whatsoever of the mysterious drive-by paintballing suffered by two of Kurt's tormentors.

.

* * *

.

You've been beaten down,  
Kicked around on the ground  
But you took it like a woman.  
Victimized, terrorized, paralysed,  
But you took it like a woman.

**Alice Cooper** – _Take It Like A Woman_

What would you think if I sang out of tune,  
Would you stand up and walk out on me?  
Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song,  
And I'll try not to sing out of key.

**The Beatles** – _With A Little Help From My Friends_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes**: Hands up anyone who was actually suspended from highschool, and tell me whether or not it taught you anything.

.

* * *

Kurt showed up to school on Thursday morning armed with a manila folder with two clean, crisp pieces of paper and a set of photos that he hated the very thought of. He was dressed impeccably, purposefully having chosen an outfit that would stand out more than usual, D&G sunglasses perched on his face. He held his head high as he walked through the crowded hallway, refusing to let on that he even noticed the way people looked at the hint of bruising on his face. He could be a brilliant actor when he wanted to.

Kurt announced his presence at the front desk of administration. He had an appointment with Principal Figgins, he explained, because that sounded better than 'I came here with proof that I was beaten'.

After an uncomfortable five minute discussion he left the manila folder on the principal's desk. He left the office just in time to make it to his first class.

.

* * *

.

Figgins spread the photos out across his desk. Two of Kurt's face at different angles, showcasing the spectacular bruising as it bloomed around his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. Several photos of unidentifiable body parts that were marked 'torso' and numbered one through four, where red marks were beginning to turn purple, and several patches were already a sickly dark green. The last photographs were of the boy's forearms, where bruises in the rough shape of fingers were pressed into the pale skin.

One of them had held his arms behind his back, the accompanying statement said in plain, sensible type.

Figgins pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He was not a doctor, or a police officer. He wasn't equipped to deal with this sort of thing and the responsibility weighed heavy on his shoulders.

The statement was in Kurt's words as dictated to an officer of the law, signed by both himself and the officer he'd spoken to. The other piece of paper was a medical certificate and doctor's statement. It was proof without proof – Kurt Hummel's statement of events.

Rules and policies tied his hands.

With a heavy sigh Figgins picked up the phone and dialled through to the front desk. He would have the admin staff contact the boys' teachers and send them up to his office one by one. Robinson was the first to show up and Figgins felt just like a detective from one of those cop shows about to interrogate a criminal. He had the evidence spread out in front of him in plain view.

"Mr. Robinson," Figgins said, looking at the teenager from behind his desk, fingers steepled together because he didn't know what else to do with his hands, "please take a seat."

The teen sat, took one look at the photos spread out on the desk and visibly paled. "I didn't do it," he said, plainly lying. "I wasn't there. I know nothing about it. You can't prove anything."

Figgins found himself hating that the boy was right. He hated it because the boy was obviously lying. The lack of respect was galling. "Your parents should expect a letter from the school within the next week. Until further notice you are required to attend detention every day after school."

The next boy, Phillips, didn't even bother with any denials. He just refused to say anything at all.

By the time the principal had seen all three boys he had a headache and was experiencing the urge to pack up and spend the rest of the day at home. Figgins had sentenced all three of the boys to after school detention, but with the lack of concrete proof there was little else he could do. Under the policies set down by the board of education he could suspend them for a maximum of three days.

He doubted it would teach them anything.

.

* * *

.

For just a moment after the bell Kurt was relieved that it was time to break for lunch. Then he remembered that with the freedom to put his glasses back on also came the scrutiny from more than just one small class full of students. Rationally he knew that they couldn't all be looking at him, that most of them probably didn't even care... He just wasn't feeling particularly rational today.

He didn't let his sudden darkening of mood show, just squared his shoulders, adjusted his posture, and walked towards the cafeteria as if he owned the school. Within moments of entering the cafeteria he found himself flanked by Mercedes, a sold presence on his right with a mean glare ready for anyone who looked their way for too long.

"I feel like a celebrity," Kurt said casually as he picked his lunch and avoided looking anyone in the eye. "Next thing you know I'll be required to sign autographs."

"As long as they don't ask you to sign nobody's ass," Mercedes replied, following after him as if it were natural. A perfectly choreographed dance that somehow effortlessly kept the barrier of her body between him and everyone else. "That aint the right definition of 'mooning over you' we want to see in school."

Kurt slid his tray up to the register, simultaneously looking for his wallet while turning to speak to Mercedes. He was interrupted by the oddly sweet, grandmotherly tones of the woman behind the counter; "Oh the house, honey."

Kurt blinked, surprised, and looked at the old woman. "Thank you," he replied, sounding as surprised as he felt.

She smiled at him, and despite the terrible uniform and the hair net covering her steel grey curls Kurt thought she was one of the most beautiful things he'd seen all day. He smiled back at her before he turned away and headed for the table he and Mercedes usually sat at. Small kindnesses, he mused, we definitely not overrated. He had just sat down and opened his bag to fish out his own travel-set of utensils (he did not trust the plastic utensils supplied by the school) when something large and heavy thumped down into the empty seat on his right, immediately followed by another on his left.

Kurt jumped a little in his seat, almost enough to send his lunch tray flying. His shoulders tightened and he looked up, eyes wide behind his sunglasses, a snappish "If you're looking to be pepper-sprayed you came to the right place" on his lips... Only to discover that he was now flanked by Finn on one side and Puck on the other.

He switched tactics and announced; "I don't need bodyguards, Finn."

"What was that about celebrity status?" Mercedes asked, smirking at him as she sat down on the opposite side of the table. "At least they aint asking you to sign their butts."

"What?" Finn blinked, and gave Kurt an odd look. "Someone asked you to sign their butt?"

"Was it a chick or a dude?" Puck asked, clearly looking at Kurt in a new light, "and did you?"

"Nobody has asked me to sign anything," Kurt informed them. He glared across the table at Mercedes, who gazed right back at him with a butter-wouldn't-melt look. (He remembered only belatedly that he was still wearing sunglasses, which rendered his vicious little glare completely ineffective behind the tinted lenses.) "Nor will I be signing anything. That goes double for body parts."

"Will you sign my butt?"

"Oh my God. No. End of discussion."

"Dude, I've got a sharpie." Puck produced the pen from the pocket of his jeans and stood. He offered Kurt the pen (which looked suspiciously like it had been stolen from the art department) and turned to present him with his right cheek, thankfully still clothed. "Right there. Autograph my ass."

Mercedes was grinning. "Come on, boy. You know you want your name writ all over his butt."

"I don't know why I put up with you." Kurt sighed, unwrapping his knife and fork from their travel case. He pointedly ignored the fact that Puck was now wiggling his ass, only looking up at him when it became clear that he wasn't going to stop of his own accord. "Sit down. You're embarrassing yourself. I am not going to sign anything belonging to you, especially not your behind."

Puck dropped back down into his seat, a smug smirk on his face. He twirled his sharpie between his fingers, tapped it against his knee, then did the same thing over again. "Yeah, you say that now. But we both know you can't resist me."

"You're as attractive as a hole in the head."

"A mouth is a hole in someone's head."

Kurt sniffed. "Well I'm not interested in yours. Go away."

"No such luck, pal." Puck nodded to Finn. "Tell him."

"You have classes with either Puck or me for the rest of the afternoon," Finn told him, sounding much less smug than his best friend. "So we thought we'd stick close and make sure nobody bothered you. You know, just in case."

"Since it turns out that Robinson, Phillips and Donahue don't get their suspension 'til next week," Puck added.

"How do you know that?" Mercedes asked, frowning. "And what do you mean 'suspension'? Why aren't they getting expelled?"

"Lack of evidence," Puck shrugged expressively. He tapped the sharpie against his thigh. "I heard it from Murray, who's taking detention this afternoon. They've got afternoons 'until further notice', and lunch on practice days."

"Their friends are getting kind of mad," Finn said. He glanced across the cafeteria towards a table full of boys and girls in red-and-white uniforms or jackets. "Matt said he'd help out in the mornings, and we figured that nobody would want to mess with Mercedes."

"Damn straight," Mercedes nodded.

"So now it's just afternoons," Finn continued, "and after that you can catch a ride home with me. Since we... live at the same place."

"Who's brilliant idea was this?" Kurt asked, not sure if he liked the idea of bodyguards. On the one hand he was touched, and also secretly a little relieved. On the other hand it felt a lot like being babysat.

There was a chorus of names, each one of them different. Kurt just shook his head. "Fine. But I swear to Gucci if you annoy me in class I will stab you with a compass."

After lunch Kurt found himself walking to his next class flanked by one broad-shouldered footballer on either side of him. Finn broke away at the last second, voicing a 'see you next period' before he sprinted away to his own class. Kurt walked into the classroom with his head held high and took his usual seat, pretending not to notice when Puck glared at the tall, gangly boy in the desk beside him until he moved.

With his seat now free, Puck sat down in a casual sprawl. He uncapped the sharpie from before and started doodling on a corner of the desk. Kurt refused to look at him, and instead kept his eyes on the teacher at the front of the class. At least until he received a sharp poke in the side with the capped pen.

Kurt turned with a glare, fixing Puck with icy blue eyes. The other boy just showed him the new graffiti on the desk. Kurt supposed it could be worse. A dinosaur in sunglasses and a fedora was a lot better than some of the terrible 'artwork' he'd seen emblazoned on other desks. "Neanderthal," he said anyway, quiet enough that the teacher wouldn't hear it.

"Tinkerbell," Puck responded, and flicked the capped sharpie into Kurt's lap.

Kurt took it and tucked it away into his pencil case. If Puck expected a drawing in response he would be sorely disappointed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes**: I just hope this is up to standard, even with it's one small moment of ambiguity.

.

* * *

"It's getting unbearable," Kurt confessed into the phone, balancing the receiver between shoulder and ear while he used his hands to arrange a few slices of peeled orange on top of the mixed leaf salad. "I swear it was like that one day back felt like an entire week."

"They're only doing it because they care about you," Tina replied, her voice just a little distorted by the phone line.

"I'm sure my grade point average will wish they cared a little less if this continues for very long."

"I think they're going to stop when everyone gets the point. That's shouldn't take too long."

"Ugh." Kurt rinsed his hands in the kitchen sink, flicked them twice to get rid of most excess water, then was finally able to actually hold the phone with a hand again. After all, you only needed one hand to pour a vinaigrette dressing. "Please lord, spare me from muscle-heads who think they're doing me a favour."

"But nobody bothered you today, right?"

Very reluctantly Kurt agreed; "No-one but Finn, Puck and Matt."

"And they weren't really bothering you, were they?"

"Well, no. But –"

"Are you sure you didn't actually enjoy having bodyguards?" Tina pressed, a smile in her voice. "You know, having at least one tall, hunky guy following you around all day, making sure nobody slushied you or said anything mean?"

"That's not the point," Kurt insisted. "They were making it impossible for me to pay attention!"

"Admit it, Kurt. You felt like a rockstar."

Kurt felt himself flush. He was glad he wasn't talking to Tina face to face or she would have been able to see that he wasn't as calm as he sounded. "I am more than capable of taking care of myself."

"But why should you be forced to when there's a trio of big dumb hotties waiting to do it for you?"

Kurt paused, covertly peered around the kitchen and then down the hallway to make sure nobody was within earshot. "But why," he whined, when he was sure nobody was there, "do they have to be straight?"

"You know what they say," Tina replied sensibly, "all of the good ones are either straight or taken."

"One day I will have a harem of large, beautiful men," Kurt told her, "and the tortures of high school will be a hazy, far away dream. In the meantime I have to go, honey. I have a chicken to baste."

"Sounds kinky. I just have homework to finish. See you in school tomorrow?"

"I'll force myself to endure the horror. Goodnight, Tina."

"'Night, Kurt."

He placed the receiver back into its cradle and paused for a moment in the kitchen. He had the opening bars of a song by Julie Brown stuck in his head and he was determined not to start humming it while he prepared the chicken for dinner. Once he was sure he wouldn't spontaneously start singing 'Big and Stupid' while buttering the chicken Kurt got back to work on dinner. Technically he wasn't meant to be making it tonight, but after the day he'd had he really just wanted to indulge a little. Convincing Carole to let him do the cooking was one way of indulging that wouldn't end in the Wizard of OZ and half a pack of oreos.

The day hadn't actually been that bad. He had gone through most of his classes uninterrupted, merely under the watchful eye of his bodyguard/babysitter. It was the very fact that he needed either of those that was getting to him.

And the fact that Puck had threatened to haul him fireman-style to his next class if he didn't give back the stolen sharpie. Kurt had taken him at his word... and hidden behind Matt instead. He still had the stolen sharpie hiding in his bag, wrapped in a couple of tissues just in case it decided to leak.

It felt like some kind of bonding. Which in turn felt bizarre.

Puck had spent the better part of two years being your average, stereotypical bully. Kurt had now stolen a sharpie from him. What on earth did that equate to?

That Kurt was dwelling on the exchange more than it deserved did not occur to him.

.

* * *

.

He examined his face in the mirror, frowning at the purple bruising around his eyes as he tried to decide whether it had gotten any better or worse over the course of the day. The bruises around his midsection were now a nice purple all over, which he presumed would fade over the course of the next week or so. They weren't what concerned him. Though they twinged when he moved the wrong way, they were invisible under almost any piece of clothing.

The bruises on his face were a different matter.

Kurt applied aloe lotion to the bruises, carefully smoothing the cool, soothing lotion over his battered skin. He closed his eyes when it tingled a little, a pleasant tingle like mint lipgloss. Speaking of which... He opened his eyes to look at the new, unopened tube of clear minty lipgloss he'd bought last weekend. He normally avoided using anything more girly than chapstick on his lips while at school, but he was feeling rather rebellious.

A hint of mint would make a nice change from strawberry, he thought.

He refused to acknowledge the thought that he was actively trying to stand out even more than usual. He had bodyguards, he reasoned (forgetting his earlier annoyance), he might as well show everyone that he was in no way cowed by his three-on-one beating.

Kurt set out the products he intended to use in the morning, then stood and went to his closet to pick the perfect outfit to showcase his utter dismissal of what everyone else thought. Bullies, homophobes, politicking Cheerios could all kiss his pert, tight little behind.

Kurt was James Bond's younger, more attractive cousin.

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Kurt rode to school in Finn's car, fully aware that this was just another excuse to make sure he actually arrived at the school unharmed. He also knew that both Burt and Carole fully approved this strategy and suspected that they'd offered Finn gas money as a bribe. Not that Finn required a bribe.

Kurt hopped out of the car as soon as it was stationary, having given his appearance a last look-over with a compact mirror as they pulled into the parking lot. He tucked the mirror back into his bag as he went, head held high, a different pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. These ones were Hugo Boss, and complimented his face shape perfectly.

He was only ten steps away from the car, with Finn left behind to lock up the car, when Kurt found himself surrounded. A terrible sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him. He adjusted his grip on his bag and waited to be steered towards the dumpsters, only to be surprised when the heavy arm that draped across his shoulders instead steered him towards the front doors.

"So, Hummel," a familiar voice drawled, "what's with the suit?"

"I have decided to become a secret agent," Kurt replied smoothly as he ducked out from under the grip. "Stop touching me. You'll wrinkle the fabric."

He turned on the steps to face his sudden entourage, one eyebrow raised. Puck smirked back at him. "Like it?" he asked. "I totally blackmailed them into helping out."

"I am so proud of you," Kurt replied, raising a hand to check his sunglasses. "You have mastered yet another skill that will be useful for your inevitable habitation of the county jail."

A puzzled frown made a very brief appearance on Puck's face before disappearing again. Either he didn't understand the insult or he didn't care. "Whatever, Tinkerbell. Do you want an escort or not?"

"Or not. And if I did want an escort, you and your football buddies would be my very last choice."

Actually, they would definitely be there in the top ten, but Kurt didn't have to admit to that. In reality he was a little bit amused by the looks he was getting with almost half of the team trailing after him like a line of very large ducklings. He felt a surge of malicious glee when he caught sight of Phillips staring with a look of complete incredulity. _That's right_, he thought, _your team is with me_. And smiled as sweetly as he could.

"Uh, can we go now?" Someone from the back of the line asked, looking fidgety. "We've already walked the –" a pause, while the boy thought better of what he'd been going to say " – the guy to the doors."

"Yeah," someone else agreed. "We've got stuff to do, man. And people are, like, watching."

"Yeah, fine, go," Puck told them over his shoulder, "pussies."

Kurt watched them all scamper off in different directions, no longer looking like ducklings, and shook his head. He turned to Puck, lips pursed. "I have no idea what you thought that would accomplish," he told the other boy, lying.

Puck shrugged. He looked at Kurt's lips briefly, then back up at the sunglasses covering his eyes, a funny expression on his face. "Are you wearing lipstick? Dude, that's so gay."

"Yet again your observational skills astound me." Kurt pouted his lips a little and smacked a kiss into the air. "It's not lipstick. It's clear, minted lipgloss. But I can see how the uninitiated might mistake it for something else."

"It makes your lips look like a girl's."

"Thankyou."

Puck looked contemplative, eyes sliding over Kurt's immaculately tailored suit and back up again. "You look like a hot lesbian."

"I choose to take that as a compliment."

"Seriously, Hummel. Your lips are all pink and puffy like a girl's."

Kurt crossed his arms. He arched an eyebrow at Puck, silently daring him to say another word.

The other boy looked back at him, noted the arch of the eyebrow, and smirked. "And when you pull that face you look like you have fish lips. Pink fish lips."

"Oh my God." Kurt expelled a sigh from his (puffy pink) lips. "Suddenly you're obsessed with my lips. What do I have to do to make you act like a normal human person?"

"I am a normal human person," Puck protested, his smirk clearly saying '_I know I'm bugging you and it's fun'_. "You're the one who looks like a hot lesbian chick."

Kurt thought about what he was going to do for only a second, but the internal process seemed a lot longer. He calculated the likelihood of having his ass kicked (again) against the satisfaction of putting Noah Puckerman in his place. Then he threw caution to the wind, stood on his tiptoes, and pressed a loud, smacking kiss to Puck's cheek. "Don't fight with me, Robin Goodfellow," Kurt told him, "I play dirty."

He turned on his heel and walked off to his first class. He would be early, but it was worth it to glance over his shoulder and see Puck standing there in shock and macho horror, a perfect lip-print shining on his cheekbone. Until it was swiped off with a quick and jerky movement.

The rumour that he and Puck were romantically entangled would have circulated the entire school by lunch, just thanks to the few people in the hallway who'd seen that quick peck. Kurt smirked to himself as he took his sunglasses off and took out his compact mirror to fix his lips. Sometimes he was an evil genius.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes**: And here we have the return of the philosophical meanderings... Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you people are what keep me writing.

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By the time lunch rolled around it was beginning to become apparent that Kurt's evil genius had spawned more rumours than he could have imagined. It had gotten to the point where some people were absolutely certain that it was actually Puck who'd punched him in the face, while others were convinced that Kurt and Puck were involved in a romance similar to the plot of The Bodyguard. The middle ground was calling it an abusive relationship. The sensible were staying out of it.

Kurt was feeling pretty smug. His spur of the moment 'plan' had worked on more levels than anticipated. Not only was Puck now being gossiped about too, but people had stopped looking at him as if they felt sorry for him. Kurt much preferred being talked about when it didn't come with false sympathy and segues into political stances on gay rights.

Kurt walked into the cafeteria with Mike playing bodyguard after having been 'tagged in' by Matt, who apparently had a lunch date. The taller boy was listening to some kind of hip-hop with one ear while scanning the crowd like a secret agent. Kurt didn't mind his presence, since Mike seemed more inclined to keep to himself than to chat his ear off like some of his other 'bodyguards' had done. Kurt smoothed the lines of his suit jacket as he stood in line, checking that it hadn't wrinkled while in class.

He was too busy keeping track of the line's movement and the set of his clothing to notice the presence creeping up behind him. Until something pinched his ass.

Kurt jumped, an undignified squeak falling from his lips. He spun, nearly knocking into the person in front of him, to face a very smug, smirking Puck. Kurt glared up at him, resisting the urge to rub his offended posterior.

"'Sup, Hummel."

The casual greeting made Kurt want to glare at him even more than he had before. He whipped off his sunglasses to remove the barrier between his glare and Puck. "Excuse me," Kurt said, "did you just _pinch me_?"

Puck shrugged, a casual little smirk twisting his lips. "Maybe."

Kurt stared for a moment, the glare wiped from his face. He hadn't expected anything even remotely similar to a 'yes'. Puck had just pinched him, in public, for no reason, _on his butt_, and wasn't trying to deny it. He turned to Mike and thwapped the other boy's arm. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"It's Puck," Mike replied with a shrug of his own. "I didn't think I was meant to protect you from guys in glee, you know."

"Well... you are! Especially if it's Puck."

Mike looked at Kurt, then looked at Puck. "I dunno..."

Puck reached out and patted Mike's shoulder. "I'll take it from here, bud." He stepped forward and slung an arm casually around Kurt's shoulders for the second time that day. "I've got the little princess secret-agent covered."

Dismayed at the abuse to his jacket – he could feel the collar being scrunched – Kurt tried wriggling free of Puck's arm. It was harder than he'd anticipated. The counter started on one side of him, there was the line in front of him, and Puck himself blocking escape in the other direction. After a few moments of twitchiness Kurt was forced to just take it. "I hate you," he told Puck. "I hate you and your freakishly hulk-like arms, and when I get free I will have my revenge so you had best be prepared."

"I'm shivering in my shorts," Puck replied, his arm squeezing tighter around Kurt's shoulders. "What are you going to do? Spray me with some girly-scented cologne? Pout at me?"

"I will use a paring knife to surgically remove your testicles."

Puck ignored the comment and nudged his side lightly with his other arm. "You're not going to break up with me before the big dance, are you? 'Cause that'd suck. I mean, I already picked out the corsage and everything."

"I know what this is," Kurt said, finally able to duck out from under Puck's arm when the line moved far enough for them both to actually pay attention to food. "Very clever, Noah. I never would have guessed that you could stoop so low, or come up with such a sophisticated retaliation. However," he added as he selected the healthiest options on today's 'menu', "you seem to have forgotten that by openly flirting with me you're only making yourself a target."

"I'm a singing, dancing badass, Hummel. Since when do I give a rats what people think?" Or about cholesterol, given his choice of lunch.

"You cared last year," Kurt pointed out, feeling he had a very valid point.

"So I don't now."

Surprised, and suspicious, Kurt frowned at the other boy. "What changed?"

"Well now I figure if anyone messes with me I can just light them on fire." Puck grinned at him as if this were an idea that made perfect sense. The troubling thing, Kurt decided, was that he couldn't quite tell if the taller boy was joking or not.

"It troubles me that you seem to think your problems can all be solved by arson or blackmail." Kurt said over his shoulder as he headed for the glee club's usual table.

Puck followed, adding; "You mean instead of stupid plans where you don't actually do anything? I'm a hands-on man, Hummel. I like getting in there and getting my hands dirty."

"And that is why you'll never progress any further than the rank of evil henchman," Kurt told him, taking care not to rumple his pants as he sat. He thought about that for a moment. If Puck was an evil henchman, then Kurt had to be the mastermind. If so, why exactly was he letting a _henchman_ keep him off balance?

"Hey, I don't mind working under someone."

Kurt could tell it was meant to be a double entendre by the way Puck's eyebrow was quirking above a lopsided smirk. He floundered for a response, caught off balance by the fact that Puck not only wasn't pissed off at Kurt for the new rumours floating around the school but seemed to be flirting with him. _Oh, you sneaky bitch_, Kurt thought to himself.

It was a good tactic. In fact, it was one nobody had tried on him before, probably because of the 'ew, gay' factor. But now that Kurt knew the game he was sure he could beat Puck hands down. After all, it didn't pay to play chicken with the guy who already had nothing to lose. With that in mind he pouted his lips just a little and turned in his seat so he could lean in closer, invading Puck's personal space. "That's good," Kurt told him, feeling absolutely ridiculous for breaking out the bedroom eyes when his face was still black and blue, "because I like being on top."

It didn't work. Puck just grinned at him. And then waggled his eyebrows. Kurt wasn't sure if he should giggle at the silliness or just sit there being horrified at the cheesiness.

"Girl, I think we just stepped into bizarro-world," Mercedes' voice dragged Kurt's eyes away from Puck's face and across the table to where she stood next to Quinn.

"I thought that whole Kurt and Puck thing was just a really stupid rumour," Quinn replied, looking back and forth between both boys sceptically, as if she could solve the mystery by frowning at it hard enough. "Now I might have to revise my opinions of girls-bathroom gossip."

Kurt was about to tell them what was really going on when he was interrupted mid-'actually' by Puck; "Is it seriously that hard to think the Princess here wouldn't fall for my charms? Yeah, you girls should know – everybody falls for the Puckasaurus sooner or later."

"You mean once in a while everyone gets stupid," Mercedes replied. "No offense, Kurt."

"We're not together," Kurt cut in quickly, turning his body away from the other boy again. "I have not suffered any sort of brain damage between this morning and now. Puck just seems to have some ridiculous notion that flirting with me will increase his standing as 'badass', given the courage it takes to show interest in anything even remotely homosexual."

Puck looked at him. "What?"

"You're just playing around because you're badass enough to get away with it," Quinn translated for him.

"Damn straight," Puck nodded. "I'm so bad I make flirting with Hummel look cool."

"I feel so very privileged," Kurt deadpanned, lips pursed.

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**The problem with not caring what anyone else thought lay in still being unable to predict or control their actions. If verbal abuse rolled right off your back, what came next? And eventually even small abuses could wear you down. One word, used often enough, can turn into something hurtful and cruel – that's why they're insults even when there's nothing wrong with the meaning.**

**The word doesn't know that it's hurtful. The hurt is placed there by the mouth that shapes it.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes**: Excuse my use of places that don't actually exist (to my knowledge) anywhere near the town of Lima.

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The word was scrawled in red marker on the door of his pickup. Just a small scrawl of letters, barely 3" by 4" above the door handle. Puck figured that was all they had the guts for. He shook his head in disgust and got into the car without complaint. He sat behind the wheel for a minute or two as he ran through the list of suspects. The culprit was most likely a jock – someone big who thought they were tough enough to take him on. He could rule out the people he'd blackmailed earlier, given the fact that he knew a few nasty little secrets they wouldn't want getting out and about and it would therefore be Really Fucking Stupid to piss him off.

Unfortunately, that left a whole host of other assholes who were still on the list and practically no way to narrow it down.

After entertaining a fantasy or two about running people down in his car, Puck sighed and reached for his phone instead. He scrolled through the list of contacts, eventually settling on someone he knew would squeal with just a little pressure in the right place. "Hey, Ben... I've got something I need to ask you."

He'd have the name in less than five minutes. Not that the weekend would allow him to do much about it. Maybe running people down or ramming their car with his was a better idea than he'd thought...

Insurance costs, and the name nervously given up by the twitchy boy on the other end of the line, were the only thing keeping Puck's homicidal fantasies at bay. Puck dropped his phone onto the passenger seat and started the truck, revving the engine twice for the satisfying roar before he actually put the car into drive. An hour with a sponge and some heavy duty cleaning liquid would get rid of the word on his door.

Or maybe he'd leave it there, just to prove that he didn't give a fuck. (Even though he actually did, but that wasn't the point.) F-A-G was just three letters in red pen on the side of his truck.

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Kurt was glad of the start of the weekend. Friday night with nothing to do was, for once, a dream come true. He could sit in at home in his fluffy dressing gown and eat celery and carrot sticks with cream cheese and raisins, watching Disney classics and not worrying about the fact that his face was turning interesting shades of reddish-purple and yellow.

He dropped his bodyguard at the door and unpacked his shoulder bag in the basement before grabbing his pjs and dressing gown and disappearing into the bathroom. "If you start watching TV, be prepared for me to steal it from under your nose," he called over his shoulder, and the bathroom door shut as a full stop for extra emphasis.

Kurt had intended just a quick shower before his usual evening cleansing routine, but got waylaid by the feeling of hot water pouring over his battered body. He hadn't realised just how stiff his back was until it started relaxing under the spray. Half an hour under water and his skin was uniformly pink from the heat and steam.

He stepped gingerly out of the shower and onto the bath mat on the floor. Wrapped himself in one of the huge fluffy towels he'd insisted on getting in place of normal, tiny, and woefully inadequate bath towels. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror, wet hair and all, and sighed. He looked like a battered housewife. But at least he wasn't sharing his abuse-chic look with anyone else at the moment.

Kurt dried himself off and slipped into his pyjamas, breezed through his post-shower moisturising, and donned his fluffy dressing gown. He then slid his feet into matching slippers and headed upstairs to prepare a bowl of cream cheese dip for his intended carrots and celery sticks. Only to stop dead half way there when he saw that they – and by 'they' he meant 'Finn' – had company.

"Oh for heaven's sakes," He said to himself, seeing Rachel standing there with a big smile and a plate full of cookies beside Finn (in what was clearly ambush formation). "No," he said firmly, then walked into the kitchen. "I am making cream cheese dip, cutting carrots into sticks, and then I am watching The Little Mermaid. You may join me if you wish, but there is to be no discussion and no inappropriate touching in my presence."

"Maybe we should take the other TV," Finn suggested tactfully.

Rachel looked dismayed to have her plans of cheer-up cookies so obviously foiled. "But I made these especially for you," she told Kurt, holding out the plate expectantly. "They're peanut-butter raisin cookies, completely vegan-friendly and one hundred percent guaranteed to lift just about anybody's mood, even yours."

"Your effort is commended," Kurt said, retrieving carrots and celery from the vegetable crisper. "But adjusting for the Berry bell curve you only get a B for execution."

Unfazed, Rachel set the plate of cookies down on top of the kitchen counter. "I'll just leave these here in case you change your mind. We can watch the New Mystery Theatre on the other TV. Come on, Finn."

She tugged on her boyfriend's arm and Finn gave Kurt a hopeless little smile. "I'll try and keep her out of your way," he said. Then added; "And you don't have to eat them."

"I have my carrots and celery," Kurt replied airily. "Go watch your mystery theatre." He retrieved a knife to peel and slice the carrots and watched the happy couple leave the kitchen, completely ignoring the plate of cookies left behind.

He managed to ignore the cookies right up until half way through the Little Mermaid, when he paused the movie to get himself a glass of water. Half way to the sink he was hit by the sudden aroma of baked goods, and frowned when his nose told him that his stomach was perhaps a little intrigued. '_Oh for_...' he repeated under his breath, and snatched one of the cookies from the plate. "This is not," he told himself, "because I need cheering up. This is because there are freshly baked cookies in the house and I am allowed to indulge every once in a while."

Kurt spent the rest of his evening as planned, watching Disney classics until he was too tired to stay awake any longer. He collapsed into bed with every intention of sleeping in until noon, only to be rudely woken at ten-thirty in the morning by a phone call from Mercedes. He forgave her for waking him up when she suggested a trip to the Pacific Fair markets and lunch in Albert St Square. Despite the looks his healing black-eye bruises got it was a good afternoon and he returned from the trip with a new pair of sunglasses and a matching wristwatch, because why not?

Sunday passed in easy slowness at the auto shop and by Monday Kurt's face had healed enough that a good coating of foundation was enough to render most of the bruising almost invisible.

Kurt walked into the school with Finn as a bodyguard, pair of sunglasses perched neatly on the bridge of his nose. The knowledge that the boys who had beat him up were now on the first day of their suspension was cold comfort. Burt had been on the phone to the police for over an hour the night before, Kurt knew full well that the worst any of them had gotten was a verbal warning from a pair of uniforms. The only way any of them were going to suffer enough to learn any lessons was if their parents thought they deserved an extra dressing-down. Kurt was cynical enough to believe that the boys' parents wouldn't be upset that they'd beat someone up, just that they'd gotten caught and had to deal with the (admittedly pathetic) consequences.

It rankled. It was as much of an insult as a slap to the face. What kind of justice system was it when someone could be assaulted and their attackers get away with a warning?

Kurt had never thought before that he would condone vigilantism, but his opinion of civilian revenge had gone up just a few notches in the past few days. The idea of his friends sticking up for him – of drive-by paint-ballings and deflated tyres – was a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest.

Gossip buzzed in a low hum throughout the hallways as Kurt swept through the crowds to his locker. It wasn't until he actually got there that he noticed anything was wrong. Scrawled across the front of his locker in messy black marker was a familiar slur. Kurt sighed. "One would think they might try being a little creative now and again."

"I don't think they've done this before," Finn pointed out from beside him, frowning at the word as if the right kind of glare would make it melt away. "Maybe they think they _are_ creative?"

"Well," Kurt said, remembering something important still lying in the bottom of his bag. "I'm much more creative than they are."

A short search through the contents of his bag and he had one sharpie wrapped in tissue held in his hand. He unwrapped the pen, uncapped it, and added several letters onto the end of the word, before changing the 'G' into an oddly-shaped 'B'.

"There." Kurt smiled and tucked the pen away again. "Fabulous."

Somewhere further down the hall there was a sudden shout, and both boys turned to see what the commotion was. Tennis balls littered the floor, scattered across the linoleum, some still rolling or bouncing away in a valiant attempt towards freedom. The source of the balls seemed to be someone's open locker, which still had a few tennis balls sitting forlornly inside.

The locker, Kurt noted, belonged to Karofsky. The hockey player stood in the middle of the mess, shoulders tense, face slowly turning an apoplectic red. He clearly was not used to being laughed at, and nobody could mistake the giggles coming from other students in the area as laughing _with_ him. Separate from the commotion, Puck stood casually further down the hallway, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway to an open classroom. Karofsky turned to face him, index finger pointed dangerously. "This means war, Puckerman!"

Puck was half way through a "bring it, bitch" when a teacher finally made an appearance, rounding the corner into the hallway. Sharp eyes assessed the situation in less than a second. "Puckerman, Karofsky," the teacher, small, unassuming Ms. Lindsey from the math department barked, "detention! And clean this mess up before someone breaks their neck!"

Kurt glanced back at the locker he had just further defaced, then at the steely look in the math teacher's eyes as she continued down the hall towards them . "I think," he said to Finn, "it's time to go."

"Yeah," Finn agreed, already backing up. "Me too."

"Last one to the choir room is a has-been country singer."

They dodged the bullet, but not for long. Kurt was in his second class of the day when he received a message that requested his presence at the principal's office. He packed up his notes and left without a word. Ten minutes later he sat in the uncomfortable chair in front of Principal Figgins' desk.

"I didn't do it," He said.

Figgins raised a hand and rubbed his forehead. The principal sighed. "Kurt, several students saw you write on your locker."

"It was like that when I got here," Kurt protested, his cheeks flushing red.

"Who else would write the word 'fabulous' on your locker?"

"Maybe I have a secret admirer?" The excuse sounded weak and sarcastic even to him, but Kurt knew better than to outright admit to defacing school property. This was the same man who had only suspended the bullies that had put the bruises on his face and body; Kurt didn't respect him and it showed.

"Vandalism is not tolerated in this school," Figgins said. "I understand you've been having a difficult time, but I'm afraid that is no excuse for misbehaviour. You will attend after school detention, and hopefully this will not happen again."

Kurt nodded, lips pursed in displeasure. He stood. "It said 'fag' before I changed it," he told the principal, then stalked out of the room before Figgins could react.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes**: That's right, it updated! The story is not dead! In fact, the story is very much alive, and has all of its chapters now written - so updates should be like clockwork from now on.

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"I don't even know where detention is held," Kurt complained at lunch, pouting into a hand-held mirror as he re-applied chapstick to his lips.

"Fraid I can't help you there, boo." Mercedes shook her head. She peered over Kurt's shoulder and into the compact mirror. "The only time I ever got in trouble was art, and they like to think they're too creative to give detention."

"Apparently creative solutions are what get you detention these days," Kurt commented. He snapped the compact shut and tucked it away into his shoulder bag. "Fag to fabulous and suddenly I have to give up my afternoon."

"Maybe Finn could tell you where you're meant to go," Mercedes suggested. She linked her arm with his and started steering him towards their usual lunch table, where Finn already sat side by side with Rachel. "Finn, have you ever had detention?"

"A few times," Finn replied, a small frown on his face, "but not this year." He smiled. "So far I've had a pretty good run."

"And that's because you're keeping out of trouble and concentrating on your singing and schoolwork," Rachel added, a proud smile on her face.

"Hm. I'm afraid that doesn't help me." Kurt slid into a seat and crossed his legs.

"You got detention?" Finn asked, the smile falling from his face.

"According to Principal Figgins several reputable sources saw me write on my locker. As vandalism is not tolerated I now have to spend an afternoon in pointless seclusion."

"He got detention," Mercedes nodded. "Anyone know where it is?"

Glances were exchanged, then Finn shrugged. "Puck would. Half the time last year he pretty much lived in detention."

"I suppose that's settled then," Kurt said, glancing around the cafeteria to see whether he could catch sight of the other boy. "Puck can be my guide."

It was a vaguely unsettling concept, to be guided by Noah Puckerman. Kurt 'hmm'ed under his breath; Puck was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Karofsky. He supposed it was possible that they were in the midst of continuing their sudden war, but he was pretty sure that if that were the case they would have heard about a commotion by now. Since nobody was running into the cafeteria to tell their friends about an epic slushy battle or new piece of vandalism it was more likely that it was just coincidence that both boys were absent.

He revised his assumption just a few short minutes later, when Puck ducked into the cafeteria and slithered into a spare seat at their table. "I was here the whole time," he said. And stole an apple from Finn's lunch tray.

"What did you do?" Finn asked, far too used to Puck to complain about his apple being stolen.

"Nothing," Puck replied, mock innocent and crunching his stolen apple as if he really had been sitting there the whole time.

"Ok. What happened that you totally didn't do?"

Puck shrugged. "Karofsky had an accident. In his pants."

Several incredulous and grossed out stares zeroed in on the apple-crunching delinquent. "Oh my God," Kurt was the first one to find his voice, "please tell me you didn't pee on another boy."

Puck just reached into his jacket and pulled out an empty Gatorade bottle which he then pointedly placed on the table. For a further bit of artistic flare, the tiny bit of liquid still in the bottom of the bottle was a vivid share of '_this has electrolytes_!' yellow. "You guys have dirty minds," Puck said, shaking his head.

"Well excuse us," Mercedes rolled her eyes. "You just told us that the guy had an accident in his pants and that you 'didn't do it'."

"That was pretty incriminating," Rachel agreed.

"No," Puck disagreed, "Karofsky's pants being soaked at the crotch. That's incriminating."

Kurt arched an eyebrow, feigning admiration. "Puck just used a five-syllable word in its correct context. Quick, everybody clap. They say you need to reward animals within three seconds of performing a new trick or they won't associate the treat with the behaviour."

"I'll show you plenty of new tricks as long as you're the one rewarding me, Hummel."

"I'm afraid I left all my doggy treats at home."

"Kurt," Mercedes interrupted, before Puck could voice whatever it was that had prompted the sudden leer on his face. "Don't you have something you wanted to ask Puck?"

Kurt sighed, reminded of his upcoming first experience with detention after school. "Noah," he started, as politely as possible, "could you please take me to detention this afternoon?"

"My boy got busted for vandalism," Mercedes added, "we figured you'd know where the detention room is, because none of us do."

"You asked the right guy." Puck nodded, not at all bothered by his reputation as a delinquent. In fact, he kinda liked it. "Alright, you've got Chemistry last, right? I'll pick up from the lab."

"Thankyou. I wouldn't want to be late to my first ever detention."

"What are you going to tell Burt?" Finn asked, frowning at him from across the table.

Kurt shrugged and flicked his hair away from his forehead, always a little nervous when it came to lying to his father. "I plan on calling him just after the bell rings and telling him that I'm going to a friend's house for the afternoon. Mercedes, would you...?"

"I'll vouch for you," Mercedes agreed.

He felt only a little better knowing that his father wouldn't hear about the detention. It would only cause more problems if Burt found out that Kurt had been given detention for changing the slur written on his locker to something more favourable. Talking to Figgins wouldn't do any good. Kurt didn't want to be treated like glass, he just wanted to be treated fairly. And as much as it sucked, any other student caught defacing school property would have gotten the same treatment.

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With Donahue, Phillips and Robinson away from school Kurt spent his afternoon without a bodyguard attached to his hip. He was pretty sure that the boys from glee were still keeping an eye out, just not quite as obviously as they had been before. He concentrated (mostly) on his class work, jotted down notes on what needed to be finished by tomorrow, and sighed when the final bell rang.

"Here's to my very first step towards juvenile delinquency," Kurt muttered to himself. He stood and followed the rush towards the classroom door, surprised when it turned out that Puck was already waiting for him in the hall. Kurt walked up to where he was waiting and cocked his head to the side expectantly.

Puck pushed himself away from the wall he's been leaning against, slouched over to Kurt and smiled at him. "So, ready to be bad?"

Kurt sighed. "I suppose I have no choice in the matter. Lead on."

"It's just an hour of sitting around," Puck told him, in what Kurt assumed was meant to be a reassuring way. He started off down the hall, leading Kurt through the masses of eagerly escaping students to a much quieter section of the school. "Fransson's been running it the past couple of months and he doesn't care what we do so long as nobody's fighting."

"Just a second," Kurt said, stopping them before the door so he could pull out his phone and call home. A two minute conversation later and Kurt had his father convinced that he was spending the afternoon with Mercedes and had promised to be home for dinner. He tucked his phone away again and squared his shoulders. "Alright."

Puck shrugged and opened up the door to the room at the end of the hall.

Kurt wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but the half-empty classroom full of bored-looking students was not it. He'd been thinking of detention as a room full of Puck-clones, the school version of dangerous criminals. The reality was more like a variety of bored, out of place teens who were ignoring everyone else in the room to listen to music, do homework, or just zone out and stare aimlessly. He hesitated when he saw Karofsky slumped in a chair by the window, but followed Puck inside with his head held high.

He took a seat at the front of the room largely because the other students had all congregated in the back, away from the supervising teacher who was clearly ignoring them anyway. Kurt glanced at his watch, sighed, and decided he might as well get a head start on his homework.

It didn't take him very long to realise that doing homework was going to be much more difficult than he'd anticipated. Especially when a pair of grubby sneakers suddenly planted themselves on top of his desk. Kurt followed the sneakers up to the jean-clad legs they were attached to, and to the person the legs belonged to – balancing precariously on just two legs of his chair. Kurt arched an eyebrow at Puck, giving the other boy his best disdainful glare. "Why," he asked, "have you just put your feet on my math homework?"

"Why are you doing homework?" Puck countered.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Why do I bother talking to you?"

"Why don't you entertain me?"

"Why don't you go jump off a cliff?"

"Why won't you just admit that you totally think I'm hot?"

Kurt floundered for a moment, flushing bright red in the face of Puck's sudden smirk. (He would swear on his mother's grave that it wasn't a blush.) "Why won't you leave me alone and let me do my homework in peace?"

"Why don't you ask me real nice and I'll think about it."

"Why are you such a jerk?" Kurt glared. He pushed at Puck's feet until he could slide his math homework from underneath the other boy's sneakers. He considered hunching over and continuing his homework anyway, but he had a feeling that Puck would just make himself very hard to ignore. So instead of painting a metaphorical 'annoy me' on his back in red paint Kurt closed his work book and shoved his homework back into his bag where it belonged. "Are you happy now?"

"Are we still using the Socratic method to talk to each other?"

Kurt suppressed the flicker of surprise at discovering that Puck apparently knew (or at least had a rough idea of) what the Socratic method actually was. "No," he said after a moment. "And I am not," he added, "going to entertain you, no matter how hard you try to get me to do otherwise."

Puck grinned. What he didn't tell Kurt was that he was already entertained, and bugging the other boy in detention was just as much fun as bugging him anywhere else.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes**: This is by far my favourite chapter so far. The references fly fast and ridiculous, the teenage angst is covered up with humour and a dash of righteous indignation... I had so much fun writing this one. I hope you have as much fun reading.

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* * *

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The hour of detention passed surprisingly fast with Puck to keep him entertained, not that Kurt would admit to finding the other boy entertaining. He kept up the pretence of being annoyed easily, rolling his eyes whenever he felt the urge to smile instead of smirk and whipping out playful insults when Puck started in on his 'weird shirts and girly hair'. It was actually so close to real fun that Kurt was revising the status of '_with a friend after school'_ as a lie. True, he wasn't at Mercedes' house like he'd said, but he _was_ with a friend and it _was_ after school.

When Fransson finally let them go, Kurt and Puck were the first ones out the door – a small benefit to taking seats at the front of the classroom. Kurt put on his very best 'must you really' face when Puck slung an arm around his shoulders and said; "Hey Hummel, think you could give me a ride in that swanky 4-W-D?"

Kurt was just about to reply that he didn't actually have the car today when he was interrupted by a disgusted voice that came from behind them.

"You guys are such fags."

Kurt's shouldered stiffened and his face flushed. He knew that voice. "Astute observation," he snapped without looking back over his shoulder. "Soon you'll be able to accurately pinpoint the colour of the sky."

"It's blue, by the way," Puck threw back towards the other boy, a wicked smirk twisting his lips. "Like your balls."

Kurt wrinkled his nose. He really didn't want to think about Karofsky's anatomy and he was about to make a comment to that effect when suddenly Puck's face was awfully close to his. For a split second Kurt thought he was about to be head-butted, then warm, male lips pressed against his and his brain suffered a small short circuit. Eyes wide open, expression like a very shocked fish, Kurt stared cross-eyed at Puck's face until the other boy pulled away.

He was still gaping like a fish when Puck turned back to Karofsky and added; "I am so not blue, dude."

Kurt barely even registered the shocked spluttering from the bully behind them. He hit Puck's chest with his messenger bag, his voice much higher than he'd have liked as he demanded; "What was that for!"

"What?" Puck grinned at him. "You started it."

"I did not!"

"Did too."

"Did I _ask_ for you to kiss me?" Kurt demanded, stalking off in the direction of the bus stop. (He hated the bus, but without his car and without anyone to give him a ride he'd have to brave public transport.) "No! I don't think I did."

"Jeez," Puck rolled his eyes, determinedly following after him as if he were dead set on further embarrassing the other boy. "Don't act so cut up about it, Hummel. So I kissed you. What's your problem?"

"That was -!" Kurt cut himself off, took a breath, and started again – this time less shrill. "That was my first kiss, with a guy, and you stole it."

"Really?" Puck smirked, paying attention only to the 'first kiss' part. "How was it?"

"Awful!" Kurt snapped. Even though he didn't mean it. To be honest he didn't really know what the kiss was like – he'd been way too shocked to pay attention and now he was wishing that he had. All he could remember was that Puck's lips had been warm and the other boy's eyes had been closed. The rest of it was a blue mess of '_what the fuck_!' and '_oh my God_!'.

"Hey!"

Kurt was forced to a stop as Puck grabbed his arm. The other boy stepped in front of him, cutting off his immediate escape. He pulled his arm from Puck's grip, angry even as he realised that if Puck had really wanted to keep hold of him then he wouldn't have been able to pull free. "What?" he asked, and for some unidentifiable reason his face was burning.

"You're the one who made the whole school think we're dating," Puck told him, eyes narrowed. "So you're cool with making a scene on your terms but you freak out when it's on mine?"

"That's not what I'm doing," Kurt insisted. He took a step to the left and went around the other boy.

"This isn't you freaking out?" Puck asked, incredulous. "Fuck. You're worse than a girl."

"So date a girl," Kurt replied snippily. He stopped right under the sign at the bus stop and stared impatiently down the street hoping that the bus would arrive quickly and cut short this ridiculous conversation. "In case it happened to escape your notice, Noah, we are not actually dating. Which means you are not entitled to make a scene by kissing me in front of some dumb bully!"

"Fine. Jesus. Have it your way." Puck turned away from him and started walking back to the school's parking lot. "You are such a bitch."

"At least I'm not a stupid jerk like you," Kurt shot back, which was admittedly not one of his best comebacks. He could hear Puck swearing under his breath but he didn't look back. Kurt stood there, arms crossed, staring down the street until the bus came and refusing to think about the feeling of heat burning across his cheeks.

He didn't look in the mirror until he got home, dismayed at how his face was blotchy and pink almost as if he'd been crying. Which he hadn't. The healing bruises on his face made it look worse, at least part of his foundation rubbed off between lunchtime touch-ups and the walk home from the bus stop. Kurt's face was pink and white and varying shades of purple and yellow.

He was disgusted with himself for being upset. What should it matter that his first kiss (with a boy) had been a two-second peck that meant nothing and that he couldn't even remember properly? He had never imagined a fairytale moment with some unidentified Prince Charming. Frankly he'd always assumed that his first real kiss would happen somewhere dark and hidden... but he'd always thought it would actually mean something. Even if that something was only 'I like you and I want to get into your pants'.

Instead it turned out that his first kiss was a show put on to gross out some asshole jock. And he didn't even remember enough to decide whether or not he'd liked it.

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* * *

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Kurt groped for his phone in the dark, making a hasty grab for it before the ringtone jarred Finn awake. He just barely managed not to knock it off the bedside table and to the floor, flicked it open, and hissed a groggy "It's the middle of the night!" into the receiver.

"I'm sorry," the voice on the other end of the line sounded unfairly awake.

"Well you should be! It's..." Kurt checked his alarm clock, "four in the morning!"

"No," the voice, which Kurt belatedly recognised as belonging to Puck said. "I mean I'm sorry. About, you know, messing up your first kiss."

"You called me at four in the morning for this?" Kurt groaned. "Oh my God, Puck. Couldn't it have waited until school? Some of us require sleep."

"Whatever. Am I forgiven or not?"

"Yes," Kurt sighed, flopping onto his back again. "Fine. Let me go back to sleep now?"

"Sleep is for the weak," Puck announced, obviously quoting something, then hung up.

Kurt waited a second just to make sure he was actually gone, then dropped his phone off the side of the bed and pulled the covers up to his chest again. He was almost asleep again when he was rudely woken by Finn mumbling groggily.

"What was that about?"

Kurt refused to answer on principle.

"Why's Puck calling you in the middle of the night?"

"He wants to have my babies," Kurt replied flatly, and rolled over so his back was to Finn's side of the room. "Go back to sleep, Finn."

"'Kay," Finn replied, sounding as if he was already half-asleep. "Name it Drizzle..."

"Oh my God," Kurt muttered to himself, and decided that perhaps (just this once) it was best to sleep with his pillow over his face.

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* * *

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The second day of his attackers' suspension Kurt decided to celebrate his temporary lack of bodyguards by dressing in purple skinny jeans and knee-high boots. He threw on a jade green scarf to compliment and spent ten minutes getting the skin around his eyes to look the same colour as the rest of his face, blended seamlessly and sealed with powder to make sure it wouldn't melt or rub off. He had two days left to enjoy being down to just two main harassers and he planned on making the most of it.

Finn eyed him oddly when he came up for breakfast. Initially Kurt thought it was because of his choice of clothing, until Finn finally blurted; "I had this weird dream that Puck was pregnant and you were the father."

Kurt looked at him evenly from over the top of his glass of unsweetened orange juice. "What makes you think I'm not?" he asked innocently.

The momentary look of panic in Finn's eyes was well worth the teasing. "I'm pretty sure boys can't get pregnant," Finn said, "it's not physically possible. Anyway, you and Puck would never get together like that."

"How do you know?" Kurt asked, irrationally offended by the statement and doing his best not to let it show.

"Uh... I don't think you're his type. He likes girls. You know, with boobs and..." Finn made a V with both of his hands, looking at Kurt expectantly.

"A vagina," Kurt supplied.

"What are you boys talking about?" Carole's voice sailed in from the living room, parental instincts flaring up at the word 'vagina'.

"Nothing!" They chorused, and Kurt smiled at the sudden reminder of how Finn and Carole fit into his family. The two households had taken a bit of time to blend together comfortably, but now Kurt could hardly imagine living in the house without Carole his almost-stepmother and Finn his almost-brother.

"I think we should get to school," Kurt suggested, even though it was early.

"Right," Finn agreed. He stood up from the table and grabbed the keys to his car. "We should get out of here before mom comes in to lecture us about safe sex."

"Again," Kurt added.

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* * *

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Kurt's locker had been scrubbed free of graffiti by the time he and Finn got to school, and a smell like lemon detergent was still hanging in the air when Kurt put his bag away. He sniffed distastefully at the smell and checked his face in the mirror hanging on the inside of his locker door. Satisfied that his skin was still flawless he shut the locker and contemplated the consequences of a morning without any sign of harassment.

He managed to avoid anyone who might bother him until exactly two minutes before his first class, at which point he was suddenly 'bumped into' and shoved against the wall. Kurt had a split second to decide how to react before the perpetrator sank back into the crowd. He decided to go for bitchy, sick and tired of being pushed around.

"Watch where you're going, asshole!" Kurt snapped, and straightened his shirt with a couple of deft tugs to the hem. He couldn't help but feel a smidgeon of terror when the boy turned, but stuck his nose in the air and stood his ground anyway.

Confronted, and possibly remembering the small contingent of bodyguards that had followed Kurt like ducklings last week, the boy muttered a sullen 'sorry' before trudging away.

Kurt ducked into his first class and sat down, heart pounding with the thrill (and shock) of actually standing up for himself. His fingers were shaking, but he felt good about himself. The ton of makeup on his face proved that he'd taken enough shit from high-school bullies to last a lifetime. If he didn't find a way to start fighting back how would he ever cope in a cutthroat environment in the real world?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes**: I got nothing.

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* * *

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The final day of the boys' suspension passed in a blur for Kurt. He went to his classes, spent lunch gossiping with Mercedes, Quinn and Tina, sang his heart out in the chorus during Glee, and was sad when the club disbanded and he realised the day was over. Tomorrow he'd have English with Phillips and Robinson, and Donahue would be back in his math class. He'd have to look at them and know that they hadn't really suffered for beating him up, that they wouldn't have learned any lessons.

"Hey, Hummel," Puck caught up to him in the hallway, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. "Got a minute?"

Kurt looked at Finn, who shrugged at him. "Sure," Kurt said, "what do you want to talk about?"

"Alone," Puck said, giving Finn a very pointed look.

"I'll, uh, wait at the car," Finn said, a look of confusion on his face as he walked off.

Puck waited until Finn was out of earshot and the two boys were alone in the hallway before he started. "So, I've got this idea."

"Go on..." Kurt said, lips pursed suspiciously.

"More of a proposition," Puck continued. "Those three douchebags are coming back tomorrow, right? There's no guarantee they won't do something stupid and we can't keep up the bodyguard routine forever – the other guys have got commitments, you know? So I figured, nobody's going to mess with the Puckasaurus' boy, since I still got my 'hawk and my badass reputation. And thanks to that rumour of yours everyone already thinks we're dating."

Kurt blinked at the other boy. He had an odd feeling that he knew where this was going. "Um... You want to fake dating me so I won't get bullied?"

"Yeah." Puck nodded. "It totally makes sense."

"It makes no sense at all."

"Yeah it does," Puck argued, and it almost sounded as if he'd rehearsed. "Because if we're dating then they'll think I'll beat them up if they touch you, or set their hair on fire in the chem. lab or something. It's foolproof. All we have to do is hang out together and hold hands and stuff. It'd be easy."

As if to prove just how 'easy' it would be Puck reached out and took one of Kurt's hands. He laced their fingers together, then gave Kurt a look that clearly said 'see?'

Kurt flatly refused to admit that he might possible be blushing. "Nobody would ever believe it."

"They would if they see this." Puck held up their joined hands.

Kurt looked down at their hands, at the contrast of his pale skin against the other boy's tan. He could feel the calluses on Puck's fingers and palms, rough skin that hinted at some kind of physical labour – weight lifting maybe, or maybe from playing guitar. Kurt's own hands were soft, moisturised and manicured. His palm felt hot and unnaturally sensitive. He pulled his hand away quickly before Puck could tell that his palms had started to sweat.

"And I'd kiss you too," Puck barrelled on, "to keep up appearances."

"To keep up appearances," Kurt repeated. He couldn't actually believe that a small, possibly masochistic part of him was actually considering the idea. "You'd have to actually take me out," Kurt added, mentally kicking himself for the coy slyness, "or people would notice that something was wrong. There are limited places in Lima that teens go to when they're on dates. Sooner or later people would start to wonder why we never go there."

"Yeah," Puck agreed. It sounded like he'd already thought about that too. (Kurt began to wonder just how much of this the other boy had already thought through.) "So I was thinking... maybe we could have dinner tonight. At that cafe on main street. They do salads and stuff as well as real food."

"You'll have to pick me up," Kurt told him, trying to will his face back to a more acceptable shade of pink. "I don't have a car and I don't think it's appropriate to ask Finn to drive me to our... fake date."

"Ok," Puck agreed. "So... around seven ok?"

"Alright," Kurt nodded. He resettled his bag on his shoulder and took a tentative step back. "I should go now, Finn's probably getting sick of waiting..."

"Ok," Puck said again. "See you tonight, Hummel."

Kurt didn't run away but he did walk pretty quickly. He rushed out to the parking lot to find Finn already sitting in the car listening to the radio. "What was that about?" Finn asked.

"Puck just wanted to talk to me about..." Kurt began, then thought better about lying. Finn would hear about it tomorrow with everyone else, and Kurt didn't want him getting the wrong impression. (Though he wasn't entirely sure what the right impression was either.) "Well, he asked me out on a date, because if we're dating then it's not likely that anyone at school will try to bully me."

"What?" Finn's eyes went wide and round. "Puck – manslut Puck? – asked you out?"

"It's not a _real_ date," Kurt stressed, nervously fussing with his hair. "It's just so I'll be left alone in school. I just thought you should know so you don't get the wrong impression tomorrow when..."

When what? Kurt wondered. When Puck held his hand in public? When Puck kissed him (in public)? _Oh my God_, Kurt thought to himself, _what have I gotten myself into_?

"Just... man, I can't believe I'm saying this. Just don't put out, ok?" Finn looked even more awkward than Kurt felt. "I don't want to have to beat up my best friend for seducing my brother. That's just weird."

"But if I don't 'put out', however will Puck get pregnant?"

"Dude. Gross. I do _not_ want to think about it."

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* * *

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Kurt spent a ridiculous time standing in front of his wardrobe doors trying to decide what to wear. He didn't want to look like he was trying to be alluring, like he was reading into the non-date more than necessary, but he didn't want to look sloppy either just in case someone from school did see them... And given how popular the cafe was with students there was a very good chance that they'd be seen.

Eventually he decided to go with something simple but elegant, something along the lines of what he'd wear to school if he were feeling particularly glamorous that day. He had barely finished retouching his makeup when he heard the doorbell ring. Alarmed, he looked at the time and couldn't help but notice that according to his clock Puck was five minutes early.

Which meant that Kurt wasn't there to answer the door.

Which in turn meant that there was an equal chance of Finn, his father, or Carole opening the door. Finn would be awkward, but Kurt had already explained things to him. Carole or Burt... Kurt dreaded to think what sort of things they might say to him later on if they thought he was actually dating Noah Puckerman, who they both knew for being Finn's friend and the father of Quinn's (now-adopted by a loving mother) baby.

Kurt grabbed his bag and bolted up the stairs. He knew he was too late when he burst out of his room in time to hear his father's voice sounding cagey and suspicious.

"... promise I'll have him back before ten," Puck answered dutifully, and Kurt was privately impressed by how respectful he sounded.

Kurt took a deep breath, centred himself, then stepped out into the hallway. "Hi Dad, Puck. I'm ready, so we can go now." He stepped up, linked arms with Puck, and steered him out the open front door. "'Bye dad. I have my phone."

"Don't want me talking to your dad, huh?" Puck teased.

"God no," Kurt replied, deadly serious. "In case you weren't aware, I have never had a boyfriend or even been on a date before. I dread to think of the embarrassing questions my dad might have asked you, almost as much as I dread to think what answers you might give."

It was pretty obvious at just a glance that Puck had made an attempt at cleaning the inside of his truck. Or had at least moved a couple of things that had clearly been there a long time. The top of the dash was mottled varied shades of black, as if parts had been protected from the bleaching effect of the sun until very recently. The passenger seat seemed to have the same effect, much less worn than the rest of the rest of the leather.

Kurt could tell that, when the car had first been manufactured, the truck had once been a beauty. He'd guess that it was already second hand when Puck got his hands on it. It still had potential, he noted as he buckled his seatbelt.

Puck started the engine, and when Kurt glanced over he saw the other boy wasn't wearing a seatbelt.

"Put your seatbelt on," Kurt said, staring the other boy down. "I've seen how you drive."

"Bossy, bossy, bossy," Puck muttered, but grudgingly clicked his seatbelt into place.

The engine rumbled as the truck pulled away from the curb – a purr rather than a roar. Kurt nodded to himself. At least he wouldn't die in a terrible accident caused by the engine exploding or dying in the middle of the road. The radio was set to a station that played classic rock, which was a surprise until Kurt remembered that all of Puck's song choices seemed to be from at least twenty years ago. Not Kurt's first choice of desirable listening, but it would do.

The cafe on main street was a combination of decent food and fairly cheap prices, something that would have drawn a lot of students even if the decor hadn't been moderately fancy. It was an acceptable date location for that reason. Kurt had never actually been there. He stood out like a sore thumb even before the waitress on duty led them to a table.

When they sat down – two boys at a table for two – they attracted attention from the entire cafe, staff and customers alike sneaking glances and gossiping under their breath about what ladies man Puck was doing with the gay kid. Kurt had to admit that as a ploy it was perfect; This was exactly the kind of exposure they needed to get everyone believing that they were dating. If, when Puck reached over and casually laced their fingers together on top of the table, it actually felt like a date, Kurt pretended he didn't notice.

He was determined not to embarrass himself with this.

The evening was surprisingly pleasant. The food was acceptable, their waitress friendly without being nosy. The conversation wasn't even stilted, mainly revolving around glee and fantasy games like 'what if you were stuck on a dessert island' or 'what if you suddenly had a million dollars'.

They split the bill for dinner, covered half and half for their waitress' tip, and left with plenty of eyes following them.

Kurt didn't let on that he felt irrationally disappointed when Puck didn't kiss him goodnight.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes**: One time, way back in middle school when I was a hellion headed for juvie (I wasn't, really. I swear), someone who shall remain nameless actually graffitied a _tree_ in bright red paint. What did it say? "R.I.P"... My middle school was next to a cemetery.

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* * *

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Kurt didn't know if it was just him, but the atmosphere at school the next day felt tense. It was the first day that Robinson, Phillips and Donahue were back from their suspension, and also the first day of Puck officially taking on the role of Kurt's boyfriend. Fake, he reminded himself as he walked into the school with Finn, head held high as if he didn't give a damn that parts of his face were still a little purple under his foundation. He was without sunglasses, dressed in a sweater/pants combination that went nicely with the ascot tie that he could only get away with because only the exceptionally dense didn't know he was definitely not heterosexual.

He was probably just projecting, Kurt reasoned to himself as he walked down the hall to his locker. He was tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop, no matter how at ease he made himself look. It was only natural that he'd imagine that was what other people were feeling too.

Mercedes was waiting for him at his locked, flanked by Quinn, Santana and Brittany. Kurt could tell, just from the looks on their faces, that their ambush would have something to do with gossip.

"What's the sich, ladies?" He asked, jumping the gun on them as he approached. "Y'all have gossip faces on."

"You're the big news, boo," Mercedes told him. "We just came here to find out if the story going round is true."

"Lucille Pritchard has been telling everybody that she saw you and Puck at the Main Street cafe," Quinn added, clarifying which news involving Kurt they were there to discuss. (That Kurt and Puck were supposedly together wasn't big news, but actual evidence from a highly public source was a different matter altogether.) "And that you two were looking very cosy."

"Is it true?" Brittany asked. "Are you two boyfriends now?"

Kurt looked at each of the four girls in turn, trying to decide what truth (what part of the truth) to tell them. "It's a little more complicated than that," he said finally. "I'm pretty sure Puck is just doing me a favour."

"See, that's what he wants you to think," Santana said bluntly. "Personally I think he's just decided he wants to be 'experimental', so he went to the only gay kid we know."

"Do you really care if he's just doing you a favour?" Mercedes asked, a knowing smirk on her face. "As long as you remember, he _is_ a good kisser."

"Puck isn't using me." Kurt frowned. "I think." He shook his head and carefully slotted his bag into his locker. "He's just pretending to be my boyfriend as a bully deterrent. His logic is that he is 'badass' and therefore certain cretins who shall remain unnamed will think twice before picking fights with me. At the very least it does mean that I can use him as a means of revenge on anyone stupid enough to try beating me up again."

"Puck suggested that?" Quinn asked, an odd look on her face.

Mercedes pursed her lips and raised her eyebrow. "Honey, you aint wrong when you say 'complicated'."

"I think it's sweet," Brittany said, and smiled at him. "He wants to protect you."

"Or it's an elaborate plot because he wants to get it on with the gay kid before ditching him."

"Thank you, Santana," Kurt said dryly.

"Don't mention it," Santana replied. Then added, in a much less abrasive tone; "If he hurts you, we'll kick his ass. Do not underestimate the power of a Cheerios high kick."

Brittany nodded. "One shot to the groin and he'll never have babies."

Kurt smiled then. He nodded at the cheerleaders in thanks and linked arms with Mercedes so they could walk to their first class together. "It's interesting having friends in athletic places."

"One thing's to be said about you," Mercedes nudged him with her elbow, "it's never dull with you around, Kurt."

"I know. Beatings, fake boyfriends, ninja cheerleaders... One day they'll turn my life into a biopic dramedy."

With Mercedes by his side and gossip about him and Puck swirling through the hallways, Kurt felt a little of the tension in him ease. This was just another day.

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* * *

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The words appeared mysteriously sometime between the end of school and the start of practice outside. Two-foot tall letters scrawled bright red across the outside of the gym, 'suck my cock' and a crude depiction of spurting male genitalia.

Coach Tanaka wasted no time in calling the office to see if he could catch the principal before he left, and then – after a quick chat with a tired-sounding Figgins – sending a student to find the janitor.

The likely suspects were all students. Nobody had spotted anyone suspicious lurking around school grounds, and the window they would have had was too small for it to be someone who didn't know the school's schedule by heart. There was a short list of delinquents, of likely candidates, and most of them had been in plain view of at least one teacher when the vandalism occurred. Of the few that hadn't, only one came up with any incriminating evidence.

A used can of red spray paint lying at the bottom of their gym locker.

"Seriously?" Noah 'Puck' Puckerman asked, hauled out of practice to talk to a harassed-looking Figgins (who should have been packing up to go home, but now had to stay at the office to deal with vandalism of school property). "You think that belongs to me?"

The can of spray paint sat on a clean sheet of white paper on the principal's desk. Figgins sat in his chair behind the desk, Puck stood on the other side, a look of incredulity on his face.

"It was found in your locker," Figgins pointed out, sick to death of students lying to his face.

"It's not mine."

"So you can tell me where you were between the time the bell rang and football practice began?"

"Yeah." The boy crossed his arms.

Figgins grit his teeth, thanked the heavens that he had Advil in his desk drawer, and prompted; "Where were you?"

"With Kurt Hummel," Puck replied, in a tone that dared him to have a problem with it. "Finn Hudson and Rachel Berry were there too. If you need to check."

"I will be checking," Figgins stated firmly, feeling the beginnings of a headache start to pound against his temples. "And when it turns out that your alibi does not stick you will need to consider the fact that vandalism is a crime."

"What?"

"You should be aware that the school is capable of pressing charges. The minimum sentence carries community service, and would remain on your criminal record until you turn eighteen."

"That's not even my spray paint!" The teen replied indignantly, "I didn't do it."

Figgins put on his very best authority voice, and squared his shoulders. "I'm afraid I will also have to call your parents, and you will likely face a suspension."

Puck uncrossed his arms, opened his mouth, and for a moment it looked as if he were about to start yelling. Then he paused, as if suddenly struck with an observation or idea. "Karofsky," he muttered. "Punk-ass little coward... Alright," the teen nodded to himself, and looked right at Figgins, and actually smirked. "Call the police and press charges. But only if they do that fingerprinting thing on that spray can."

"I don't think that's going to be –" Figgins started, getting the impression that he was missing a very big, important piece of information here. He tried to remind himself that he was the one in charge, but it was hard to remember when he was being cut-off mid sentence by some punk kid with more muscle than brains.

"This school doesn't have security cameras," Puck said, with no qualms about cutting off his principal. "And I didn't confess. So if you want to press charges you need proof, right? Fingerprints are proof. So get it done, or I think I'm gonna have to talk to someone about how our school's principal is a racist and a homophobe."

The idea that he was missing something vital grew, along with his headache. Figgins narrowed his eyes into a glare and picked up his phone. It was nearly eight o'clock by the time he got home. In the hours before then he obligingly drove the teenage delinquent Noah Puckerman to the police station, sat in the waiting room for far too long, submitted the spray can (wrapped in a plastic bag) as 'evidence' and watched the boy get his fingerprints taken. He'd then been forced to fill out paperwork and to drive the kid back to the school so the boy could take his own car home. After all of that he wouldn't even have confirmation of the boy's guilt until the next morning.

For some reason Puck had left smirking.

Figgins found out why the next morning when he entered his office. There was already a message waiting for him. The fingerprints on the can did not belong to Puck. There had been two sets of fingerprints on the can, and only Coach Tanaka had handled the spray paint can after it had been found.

Puckerman wasn't the vandal. No wonder the kid had been looking so smug.

Figgins reached for his Advil. He could feel another headache coming on.

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* * *

.

The first bell rang for the morning and the situation with Kurt and Puck was no longer the juiciest topic being discussed. The vandalism was such big news that not even repeated orders from exasperated teachers could get people to stop talking. The school had never been vandalised before. Not because of school spirit, as some teachers were currently claiming, but because in a small-town community like McKinley belonged to it would never take long to find out who did it.

"Who would do something like that?" Finn asked, perplexed rather than offended. "I mean, you've got to be pretty stupid to paint all over the gym and think you're not going to get caught."

Mike, currently sitting in the desk next to him, nodded in agreement. "Maybe someone really wanted attention?"

"And suspension."

"Whatever they wanted, I hope they got it. Because when they're caught it's going to suck for them."

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* * *

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The announcement came through over the PA system during the last class before lunch. Instead of their usual classes after the lunch period students would be required to attend an assembly in the gym. Attendance was mandatory, and any student caught ditching would face both detention and a call home to their parents.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes**: I'm actually nervous about this chapter, given the philosophical rant at the bottom. I hope nobody feels too offended... Just bear in mind that it's meant to be a sliding perspective, and is sort of a finishing note before the very last piece to this story.

This is the prelude to the end, people. The next chapter of this story will be the last.

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* * *

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"Do we know what this is about?" Tina asked, sitting at the lunch table between Mercedes and Artie. A box of shortbread cookies sat in the middle of the table, the contents reduced to little more than crumbs between the collective appetites of the 'gleek table'.

"I heard it was about tolerance," Rachel replied from across the table. "Which I fully support, given the severe lack of it around this school. In fact, I think it should have been done sooner."

"It's about the vandalism," Puck stated, stomping any further debate in much the same way that he crunched on the last shortbread cookie. "And some crap about 'acceptance'."

"Figgins thought Puck did it," Finn explained, which at least half the table already knew. "But he was with us the whole time, so he couldn't have."

"My name is clear." Puck smirked. "But obviously someone wanted to get me in trouble."

"And since we're now very publically dating," Kurt added casually, drawing the entire table's attention to his direction with his calm, precise assessment, "that clearly qualifies as an attempted hate crime. Two instances of anti-gay campaigning in as many weeks is unacceptable, and should word get out that Principal Figgins automatically and wrongfully identified the 'gay Jew' as the school's vandal it could be very bad for the school – even in a town like ours. Thus, an emergency assembly on the importance of tolerance and equal acceptance was the logical step to covering his ass."

"That doesn't make it unwarranted," Rachel pointed out, drawn up to her full height (or as close as she could manage while still seated). "Or unneeded. Learning to accept people of different religions, race, or sexual orientation is never a bad thing. It doesn't matter what Principal Figgins' motivation for the assembly is, that doesn't make it any less needed."

Rachel had a point and everyone knew it. Figgins' motivation could be nothing but selfish and it wouldn't matter. Even if nothing came from the assembly at least it counted as trying.

As a result of both Rachel's reminder that acceptance was never a bad thing and as a show of solidarity the glee club kept their rebellious mutterings about the mandatory assembly to a minimum when they filed into the school gym. The seats filled up quickly, which left the remaining students no choice but to sit on the floor. Most of the club found themselves on the floor, and consequently closer to where the microphone had been set up for the assembly speakers.

When everyone was seated, Puck reached out and very pointedly took Kurt's hand. When the pale boy arched an eyebrow at him Puck shrugged. "It's a tolerance assembly. We're like the main attraction."

Kurt rolled his eyes and turned back to face the right direction again. "Boys holding hands in public," he murmured, just loud enough for the few people around him to hear, "what _is_ the world coming to?"

The assembly turned out to be something very different from what everyone had been expecting, which was a stern talking to and a demand that the person who vandalised the outside of the gym come forward. What they actually got was a hastily put-together series of speeches about bullying, which included painfully stiff roleplay of various bullying scenarios and a 'guest speaker' who turned out to be a police officer who talked about statistics of hate crime – motivated by both race issues or sexual orientation – in the state of Ohio. Though clearly pulled in at the last minute, the officer had obviously given speeches of the sort before and ended by stating that there was never an excuse to resort to violence or crime, and that bullying was sometimes a first step along a road that would take you somewhere very unpleasant: jail.

By the time the assembly ended and the students were allowed to leave it was time for the last class before the end of school. One leg partially numb and the other already suffering from pins and needles, Kurt reluctantly untangled his fingers from Puck's so he could stand without overbalancing. He would never admit aloud that the stroke of Puck's thumb across the back of his hand had been the most interesting thing about the assembly, and the most comfortable thing about sitting on the floor.

"Well that was a waste of time."

Kurt recognised the voice and turned his head just in time to see Santana walk past, her pinkie finger linked with Brittany's.

"I thought it was fun," Brittany replied seriously. "I liked the part about baseball."

Kurt was pretty sure she was referring to one of the roleplay scenarios, but he hadn't been paying a whole lot of attention at the time and so couldn't be certain. He spent his last class passing notes back and forth with Tina and wound up walking with her to her locker before going to pick up his bag from his own locker.

"I'm just glad they already painted over the graffiti," Tina admitted as they walked together, "I didn't want to see that every day."

"The artwork wasn't even particularly good," Kurt agreed, the airy tone of his voice making it hard to tell if he was joking or not. "The lack of artistic flair clearly rules out anyone who studies art or music. I choose to believe that those of us with a little culture would have thought of something much better to say."

"'More funding for the arts'?" Tina suggested.

"'Death to pastels'."

"'Fire babies cat whistle'." Tina grinned at him. "It's postmodern."

"I wonder if it would have counted as an extra credit assignment," Kurt mused, smirking a little to himself as he pictured artistic vandalism. The smirk wavered a little when he imagined who exactly would be behind said graffiti. He couldn't help but picture Puck spray painting the words 'fire babies cat whistle' onto the side of the school gym. Shirtless, for some unfathomable reason. Kurt groaned in self-disgust and squeezed his eyes shut to try and get rid of the image, a tactic that was less than successful. "Oh my God. I am a masochistic idiot."

"What's wrong?" Tina asked, at the same time that a voice called out from across the parking lot; "Hey, Hummel!"

Kurt sighed, looked at the approaching figure Mohawk and letter jacket, and added to himself; "And God hates me."

"I thought you'd still be at your locker," Puck told him when he was close enough not to shout across the lot. "Thought I'd missed you until I saw that monster truck you got."

"Yes," Kurt agreed, looking at his baby as an excuse not to look at the other boy. Thoughts of Puck without a shirt were still circulating somewhere through his brain, and he was pretty sure he ran the risk of blushing if he tried to look the other boy in the face. "Dad finally saw the wisdom in letting me drive myself to and from school in a large armoured vehicle. Armour piercing bullets couldn't get through my newly shatter-proof windows."

"Cool," Puck nodded. Though Kurt wasn't looking directly at him he could see it when Puck looked the car up and down appreciatively. Possibly contemplating the number of crimes that shatterproof glass could facilitate, Kurt thought to himself, purposefully uncharitable to remind himself of why it was a bad idea to develop a crush on Noah Puckerman. "So," Puck moved to lean against the car in a casual pose that was clearly engineered to be nothing less than mouth watering, "that means you can drive out to meet me on Saturday, right?"

"Saturday?" Kurt asked, blinking dumbly.

"Yeah. Saturday." Puck nodded. "I thought we could go out. See a movie or something."

Kurt wasn't entirely sure what was going on here, but he nodded. "Sure," he said, catching his footing, "Saturday sounds good. Shall we say around seven?"

"Great," Puck pushed himself away from the side of Kurt's Navigator and took the step and a half forward he needed to crowd in on the pale boy's personal space. "We can meet outside the cinema, seven on Saturday."

One of Puck's hands raised to slide around the back of his neck, fingers brushing his hair, and Kurt's face instinctively tilted up, eyes fluttering closed without his active consent. Soft, slightly chapped lips pressed against his and caught on his bottom lip. The world felt suddenly surreal, his lips tingling, his heart beating too fast in his chest. A small, cynical part of him wondered whether this wasn't some kind of hoax – a plot to cripple him with a hopeless crush before a humiliating public rejection.

Then he remembered two things. Puck was in the glee club, a realisation that encompassed his recent stint as one of Kurt's own bodyguards. And technically this was public. Puck was kissing him in public, a fact that made little sense if there was some kind of sinister plan involved.

Struck dumb by the thought, as well as the fact that this was (ignoring that other kiss) sort of the first time he'd ever been kissed, Kurt could only blink in shock when the other boy pulled away.

"So," Puck said, taking a step back, "uh, I'll see you tomorrow, Kurt."

"'Bye," Kurt managed, frankly amazed that he didn't sound as off-balance as he felt. He watched Puck jog away to his own car, having completely forgotten about Tina until she whacked his arm.

"That's a date," she told him, somewhere between awed and teasing, "you're going on a date with Puck!"

"It's not a date," Kurt protested, even as he began to wonder what he'd wear. He was going to have the same issue as last time, he realised, the trouble of finding something that was neither too formal or too casual. "It's keeping up appearances."

"On Saturday," Tina pointed out.

"I don't see what the day of the week has to do with my not dating Puck."

"Saturdays are making an effort," Tina explained. "Parties happen on Saturdays, bowling leagues and extracurricular stuff usually meet on Saturdays. Everyone expects a date on Friday, because it's the day before the weekend and you can stay up late, Saturday is different."

"I don't think a person should put too much stock in those theories."

"What about how he kissed you?"

Kurt didn't have a proper answer for that. He adjusted the set of his bag against his shoulder, then raised his hand to check his hair. "I expect Puck always kisses like that."

Tina looked sceptical. Kurt suspected she'd be calling Mercedes when she got home. But until he had solid proof that Puck's intentions towards him were anything other than what he'd said, Kurt's opinion was going to stand. They weren't dating, and the kiss didn't mean anything. No matter how much his subconscious may wish to see Puck without his shirt on.

He wouldn't find out until much later – in fact, not until their not-date on Saturday – that Puck's car still sported a three-letter word above the driver's side door handle.

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* * *

.

At the end of the day hate is all about interpretations. Opinions. I think this, you think that. What makes you feel uncomfortable? Where do you draw the line? At what point would you step up with your fists to set someone right?

You hate child pornography. You hate murder, and rape, and crimes of violence. You hate that people use their religion as an excuse and you hate that the Muslims get to demand you conform to their customs in their countries while we're forced to tolerate their culture in ours.

You hate the gays because they chose their path to hell when they first decided they wanted to turn away from women. You hate that some people just don't get that it's a choice.

You hate the fundamentalists who don't understand, and you hate it when they parrot back the bigoted, racist, sexist opinions their grandparents taught them.

You hate the government because of their censorship, because of the way they're running this country into the ground. You hate that every so many years you're forced to listen to a sudden surge in their propaganda, and you're forced to pick between two sides of the same coin. You hate that they're going to screw you either way.

Most of all you hate uncertainty and not knowing where you stand. That's why you think in monochrome. That's why sometimes you feel like you have to use your fists.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes**: So this is The End. After this, there will be no more. I mean it. No more chapters after this one.

However, those of you that actually care should note that_ Stick (Like A Pig)_ will be getting a sequel next week, so if you feel like a change from drama to murder I suggest you check it out. Not that you will. Because it takes a special kind of person to want to read a serial killer future!fic, and you're better than that...

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* * *

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"I have this theory," Rachel started, hands clasped together on her knees. She stared earnestly at Finn from the opposite end of the couch, her big brown eyes as serious as they could get and for a moment he found himself distracted by their honesty. Honesty, he had decided, was very attractive in a woman. "Finn? Are you listening?"

"You have a theory," Finn prompted, proving that he had been listening.

"Yes. I have a theory," Rachel repeated. She resettled on the couch and leaned forward. "About Kurt and Puck."

"I don't know if I actually want to hear this."

"You see, I don't think they're actually fake-dating." Rachel nodded to herself. "You've met my dads, haven't you? Well you know how they're such different people but who also have lots of things in common, enough so that they work together really well as a couple? I think that's what's actually happening with Puck and Kurt. They're not fake-dating, they're actual-dating. They just don't know it yet."

Finn frowned, and glanced briefly in the direction of Kurt's basement room. It was pretty obvious that Finn's almost-stepbrother and his best friend were friends now, but that wasn't exactly unusual. Kurt was now also friends with Matt and Mike, and both he and Finn had been invited over for singstar karaoke night several times before. But the idea of Puck actually dating Kurt (and not just pretending to) made almost no sense to him. "I don't know... I think you might be reading too much into this."

"No, it makes sense. Opposites attract," Rachel started, "but in order for there to be real attraction you also have to have things in common. Puck likes football and sport and rolling around in the dirt –"

"Rach, he's my friend, not a dog."

"– and Kurt likes fashion and theatre and keeping things neat. But they both enjoy singing, they both appreciate classic cars, and they both like the same action movies because Puck likes the explosions and Kurt can enjoy the shirtless sweaty muscle-men and make fun of the bad dialogue. Are you with me so far?"

"Yeah," Finn agreed reluctantly. "But that doesn't mean they're attracted to each other."

"Anyone who has a functioning set of eyes can tell that they're attracted to each other." Rachel held up one finger, "Puck holds hands with Kurt in public, and has kissed him in front of Tina, someone that he doesn't actually need to convince of their supposedly nonexistent relationship, as well as in front of practically the whole school during lunch." She held up a second finger, waited a second to build a dramatic pause, then added her second observation; "And Kurt let him."

Fate or good timing interrupted Finn before he could begin to think of a rebuttal. The front door swung open and in sauntered Kurt, mid-argument, dressed in white skinny jeans and a candy-striped shirt, matching fedora perched at a jaunty angle on his head. "... completely missing the point," he said to Puck, who followed him in like the shadow of opposite-day in dark baggy jeans and a plain grey-blue t-shirt. "The entire point of the movie is to not judge a person by what's on the outside."

"Yeah, so why did that dude have to change his whole look before she went out with him?" Puck asked, stubbornly sticking the point. "If the point was that the outside didn't matter then she shouldn't have cared."

"But he _had_ to change his look in order to prove to her that he was exactly the same – actually, scratch that, that he was better than any of those other gorgeous, available guys if she would only take the time to look."

"So to prove that he's better he decides to look exactly like them?"

"Exactly. It's a method of social commentary," Kurt explained as they crossed the living room to get to the door to the basement, "emulating something in order to prove its uselessness in society."

"Seriously? 'Cause all I got out of that is that she was a bitch with double standards."

Kurt rolled his eyes and yanked open the door to his room. "You are such a Neanderthal."

"Bite me," Puck replied, smirking, and shut the door on Kurt's reply.

Finn looked away from the closed door and to his girlfriend's face, only to see Rachel looking right back at him with a smug expression on her face. "There," she said, "see? They are totally going out for real. They just haven't admitted it to themselves yet."

"It makes a sick kind of sense," Finn said to himself, only a little bit horrified about the idea of his almost-brother and his best friend actually dating, "that Puck would be bi."

Rachel reached over and patted his knee.

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* * *

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Kurt wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten here, three months, six detentions, and two more mandatory assemblies on bullying later. He lay on top of his bed with another body between himself and the mattress, lipgloss smudged and mostly gone where it had wiped off onto the mouth beneath his. It made everything taste like cola, which was something he didn't mind because it made the other boy's tongue dart out and run over his lips, chasing the flavour like he couldn't get enough.

Kurt had sort of bought this flavour lipgloss with the sole intention of putting it on before kissing.

A large, warm hand slid down his back and wormed its way into the back pocket of his skinny jeans. Kurt pulled away just a little and pushed himself up so he could look down at the other boy. Puck smirked back up at him, lips puffy and kiss-bruised.

"Are we dating?" Kurt asked frankly.

The smirk fell from Puck's lips and he gave Kurt a look of incredulity. "What?"

"I realise it's an arbitrary question, but – "

"Yeah."

"– I think it would be nice to actually... Oh." Kurt blinked down at the other boy. "Well. That's good then."

Puck's hand squeezed against Kurt's backside, massaging his flesh through the thin layer of denim. "Can we get back to kissing now?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.

"Yes," Kurt replied, nodding, "yes, I think we should."

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* * *

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On Friday evenings after their respective practices Puck was teaching Kurt how to punch. Or trying to. It usually ended in the same way.

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* * *

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**And frankly, you don't care what anyone else thinks.**

**END  
**


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